The Memoirs Of Sherlock Holmes And Luna Watson
by Luna.T.Lawliet
Summary: John's sister comes to live at 221b... What can go wrong? Follow them as they solve various cases, growing closer and older as time goes on but something will come to light. Is it possible that John's sister is in love with the detective? Does he feel the same? Can he feel the same? Sherlock/OC/John. Based on Granada TV shows and book. Better than it sounds. Sherlock a little OOC
1. The Three Gables Chapter One

_**Here's a story I've been working on for the last couple of weeks, ever since school holidays. That was when I was first introduced to Jeremy Brett's work though when I went upstairs to get my book, ready to write this… I found out that I had the book with his picture on. Talk about being unobservant. **_

_**Now, I'm not particularly known for writing disclaimers at the start of every chapter but this will count for the rest of my story. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, 221b Baker Street, Mrs Hudson or the case that I have written about. Though they are in the public domain, soul rights rest with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the amazing Scot. **_

_**However, I do own Luna Watson (Well, not her last name.) I do own everything else about her though like her personality, her clothes and her soul. **_

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Since the unexpected arrival of my dear younger, and only, sister, Holmes' behaviour hasn't vastly improved but some of the small differences that have taken place are quite spectacular to witness. Despite his usual attitude towards the fairer sex, he seems to have taken a genuine shine towards Luna. Many a time during her stay with us as 221b Baker Street, that wasn't planned, which I was assured of by Sherlock, I've walked in on them discussing past cases in great depths. She would tell him what had been placed in the papers, he would regale her with the true details and with those, she managed to guess all the theories we used while investigating it. To my amazement, he would smile and then reward her with another.

Another thing that, still to this day, doesn't fail to steal the air from my lungs is that he had awarded my sister with a large variety of pet names. Only once have I heard her name leave his lips and that was when they were first introduced, late October of last year. When they were acquainted, the close friendship between them began to grow, almost as quickly as that between him and myself. I honestly couldn't tell you what it is about the Watson family but Holmes seemed to be a magnet of some sort, attracting us with that promise of danger because he didn't overlook that fact when offering her lodging under our already shared roof and for that, I was truly grateful. I would not have been able to find the strength to turn my own flesh and blood away at the door when it was her time of need, especially with all the care she provided me with when I was serving with the army.

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I don't think that any of my adventures with both my sister and Mr Sherlock Holmes opened quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I now associate with The Three Gables. I had not seen the pair for a number of days and had no idea of the new channel in which their shared activities had been directed. He was in a chatty mood that morning, however, and had settled me into the well-worn low armchair on one side of the fire, while he curled down with his pipe in his mouth on the opposite chair. Sat by his feet, a place which she seemed to occupy constantly, was my Luna, her legs folded elegantly by her side and covered by the deep amethyst silk of her gown. It was only a moment after I'd been seated that our visitor arrived. I beg of you to believe me; if I had said that a mad bull had arrived, it would have given a clearer impression of what had actually occurred.

The door was flung open with incredible force, ricocheting off of the wall behind, to reveal strong man of African-American descent. He would have been a very comic figure if he not been so intimidating in appearance, for he was dressed in a bold grey check suit and a flowing salmon-coloured tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust forward, as his sullen dark eyes, a smouldering gleam of malice burning within them, turned from me to the other two occupants of the room.

"Which of you gentlemen is Mister Holmes?" he asked, his voice gruff and his eyes lingering on the lady of the room a little too much for my liking for every protective instinct in me flared up at that moment.

Holmes raised the pipe, a languid smile settled on his lips.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" inquired our visitor, coming with an unpleasant, stealthy step around the angle of the table. "See here, Mister Holmes, you keep your hands out of other folks' business. Leave folks to manage their own affairs. Got that, Mister Holmes?" I noticed that as he spoke, one of Luna's hands carefully touched my friend's shin, as if to reassure him though it didn't seem like a conscious effort, while the other crept towards the cane she forever carried, despite the fact that it wasn't needed in order to aid her walking.

"Keep on talking," Holmes said, his eyes briefly glancing down to the woman at his feet as he spoke his next sentence. "It's fine."

"Oh! It's fine, is it!" growled the savage, seeming to miss the meaning behind his words or the direction in which they were directed. "It won't be so damn fine if I have to trip you up a bit. I've handled your kind before now, and they didn't look so fine when I was through with them. Look at that, Mister Holmes!".

He swung a huge knotted limp of fist underneath my friend's nose, allowing him to examine it closely with an air of great interest though the same could not be said for my sister. Her blue eyes seemed to glow in anger as she carefully observed the man's actions. At the side of her, she held a tight grip of the golden orb that mounted her oak cane, ready to brandish to the cleverly concealed blade that rested within the hollow case.

"Were you born so?" he asked, his mouth open as he was about to continue but Luna bet him to the punch as they say. Slowly revealing the sinister looking blade and pointing at such an angle that he would have been impaled in the stomach if he moved an inch closer, she finished our mutual friend's sentence.

"Or did it come by degrees?"

It may have been the icy coolness of my friend's voice, the composed mask of my younger sister or the slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker from our fireplace. In any case, our visitor's manner became much less flamboyant.

"Well, I've given you fair warning," said he. "I've a friend that's interested out Harrow way—you know what I'm meaning- and he doesn't intend to have no butting in by you. Got that? You aren't the law, and I am not the law either, and if you come in I'll be on hand also. Don't you go forgetting that."

"I've wanted to meet you for some time," Holmes admitted. "I won't ask you to sit down, for I doubt me and my companions would be able to stand the smell of you, but aren't you Steve Dixie, the bruiser?"

"That's my name, Mister Holmes, and you'll get put through it for sure if you dare to give me any lip."

"It is certainly the last thing you need," said Holmes, staring at our visitor's hideous mouth. "But it was the killing of young Perking outside of Holborn—bar what! You're not going?"

The man had sprung back from my friend, his face was leaden. "I won't listen to no such talk," he said. "What have I to do with this here Perkins, Mister Holmes? I was busy training at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when this boy done gone into trouble."

"Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve," Holmes claimed, staring at the man. "I've been watching you and Barney Stockdale—"

"So help me the Lord! Mister Holmes -"

"That's quite enough for now, any longer and I fear my sense of smell shall be far from the point of being able to make a successful recovery." Luna hissed harshly, glaring at our visitor without moving the blade. As she stared at him, I noticed Sherlock's eyes soften slightly, hardly visible to the untrained eyes but mine had improved during my time with the consultant detective. His lips twitched at the corners before he carefully took hold of her wrist, lowering the weapon back to her side where she could do no harm.

"Good morning, Mister Holmes. I hope there aren't no hard feelings about this here visit?"

"There will be unless you tell me who sent you."

"Why, there aren't no secrets about that, Mister Holmes. It was the same gentleman you have just done gone mentioned."

"And who set him on to it?"

"Help me. I don't know, Mister Holmes. He just said,' Steve, you go see Mr Holmes and tell him his life isn't safe if he goes down Harrow Way.' That's the whole truth." Without waiting for any further questioning, our visitor bolted out of the room almost as precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked the ashes out of his pipe, his spare hand seeming to settle gently on Luna's head, with a quiet chuckle.

"I am glad that you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I observed your manoeuvres with the poker and our darling's while handling that blade. He is really rather a harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby and easily cowed, as you have both seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang and has taken part in some dirt work of late which we may clear up when we have the time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute person. They specialise in assaults, intimidation and the like. What I wish to know is, who is at the back of them on this particular occasion?"

"But why do they want to intimidate you?" Luna asked, her head resting lightly against his knee, her mahogany curls standing out against the black material of his suit trousers.

"It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter, for it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble, there be something in it."

"But what is it?"

"I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is Mrs Maberley's note. If you care to come with me and my lovely lady, we will wire her and go out at once."

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_Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes: _

_I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in connection with this house, and I should much value your advice. You would find me at home anytime tomorrow. The house is within a short walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer Maberley, was one of your early clients._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Mary Maberley. _

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The address was 'The Three Gables, Harrow Weald.'

"So that's that!" said Holmes. "And now, if you can spare the time, Watson, we will get upon our way."

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**_So, Do you like it? Do you hate it? Just drop me a review._**


	2. The Three Gables Chapter Two

_**Here's part 2 of 'The Three Gables' case… Looking at my stories, it comes in the top 10 but missed the top 5 by 1 view. To be honest, I wasn't expecting anything that amazing because I didn't think many people would read it but oh well…. Woo!**_

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_I'd also like to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-Fifi, my first reviewer and the first to add this story to their favourites. Thank you honey, it's greatly appreciated. _

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A short railway journey, and a shorter drive, brought us to the house, a brick and timber villa, standing in its own acre of undeveloped grassland. Three small projections, above the uppers windows, made a feeble attempt to justify the name it was given. Behind was a grove of melancholy, half-grown pines, and the whole aspect of the place was poor and incredibly depressing which both Luna and Sherlock commented on without any signs of hesitation. None the less, we found the house to be well furnished inside, and the lady who received us was a most engaging elderly person, who bore every mark of refinement and culture.

"I remember your husband well madam though it is some years since he used my services." Holmes told her as she led us through the halls of her home until we reached a small dining room of sorts.

"It's been some years since he's been with us, my dear man. Please, you should try some of this. I baked it myself" she said, gesturing a freshly baked Victoria sponge while my friend pulled a chair out for my sister. With a small smile, she took a seat in the wooden kitchen chair before taking a seat beside her.

"My word, that's Douglas Maberley!" I said, briefly pointing to a portrait of a young man I instantly recognised. His short blonde hair and deep brown eyes made him a woman's definition of handsome and truly, he was a handsome and strapping young chap as well as good mannered. "Yes, I knew him slightly. He's a splendid fellow, plays rugby for my old club, black heath."

"Yes, I'm his grandmother." She paused, looking down at the table for a few moments, a great sadness filling her eyes. "I was his grandmother. He died a month ago."

"Died?"

"You hadn't heard?" she asked, seeming surprised until something hit her. "No. No. it was a sad ending."

"I am sorry. One could not connect death with such a man. I have never known anyone so vitally alive. He lived intensely -every fibre of him!" I told her, silently offering my condolences for her loss. That poor young man, probably no older than the thirty-five year old Luna. It was not a good age to go for he had died before he truly had chance to live.

"Too intensely, Dr Watson. That was the ruin of him. You remember him as he was - debonair and splendid. You did not see the moody, morose, brooding creature into which he developed. His heart was broken. In a single month I seemed to see my gallant boy turn into a worn-out cynical man."

"A love affair - a woman?"

"Or a fiend. Well, it was not to talk of my poor lad that I asked you to come, Mr Holmes."

"Dr Watson, Ms Watson and I are at your service."

"There have been some very strange happenings. I have been in this house more than a year now, and as I wished to lead a retired life I have seen little of my neighbours. Three days ago I had a call from a man who said that he was a house agent. He said that this house would exactly suit a client of his, and that if I would part with it money would be no object. It seemed to me very strange as there are several empty houses on the market which appear to be equally eligible, but naturally I was interested in what he said. I therefore named a price which was five hundred pounds more than I gave."

"And did he accept this offer?" Luna questioned, accepting the offered saucer which held a rather large quantity of the delicious smelling baked treat. As though realising my thoughts, she broke it into two and deposited the other piece on another small china plate, offering it to me. Accepting it, I brought her to hand to my mouth so I could plant a kiss on her knuckles, causing her to roll her eyes at me as she usually did when I showed brotherly affection around people. It had taken some weeks to adjust to my behaviour while Holmes was there.

"He at once closed with the offer, but added that his client desired to buy the furniture as well and would I put a price upon it. Some of this furniture is from my old home, and it is, as you see, very good, so that I named a good round sum. To this also he at once agreed. I had always wanted to travel, and the bargain was so good a one that it really seemed that I should be my own mistress for the rest of my life." Mrs Maberley explained. While she did this, my sister's eyes narrowed slightly as she glared at the wooden table in deep concentration, a trait that had only developed in the last couple of months, or so I had noticed. Perhaps it was there all along and it had only captured my attention as of late but I couldn't be sure.

"Yesterday the man arrived with the agreement all drawn out. Luckily I showed it to Mr Sutro, my lawyer, who lives in Harrow. He said to me, 'This is a very strange document. Are you aware that if you sign it you could not legally take anything out of the house - not even your own private possessions?' When the man came again in the evening I pointed this out, and I said that I meant only to sell the furniture."

'No, no, everything,' said he.'

'But my clothes? My jewels?'

"'Well, well, some concession might be made for your personal effects. But nothing shall go out of the house unchecked. My client is a very liberal man, but he has his fads and his own way of doing things. It is everything or nothing with him.'

"'Then it must be nothing,' said I. And there the matter was left, but the whole thing seemed to me to be so unusual that I thought -"

Here, we had a very extraordinary interruption as Holmes raised his hand in a silent request for silence. Then, he strode across the room, flung the door open, and dragged in a great gaunt woman who he had seized by the shoulder. She entered with an ungainly struggle, like some huge awkward chicken who tried to fight their fate, torn, squawking, out of its coop.

"Leave me alone! What are a-doing?" she screeched, attempting to pull away though he wouldn't allow his hold to falter.

"Why, Susan, what is this?"

"Well, ma'am, I was coming to ask if your visitors were staying in for lunch when this man jumped out at me, scaring me half to death."

"I have been listening to her for the last five minutes, but did not wish to interrupt your most interesting narrative. Just a little wheezy, Susan, are you not? You breathe too heavily for that kind of work."

Susan turned a sulky, but amazed face upon her captor. "Who be you, anyhow, and what right have you for pullin' me about like this?"

"It was merely that I wished to ask a question in your presence. Did you, Mrs Maberley, mention to anyone that you were going to write to me and consult me?"

"No, Mr Holmes, I did not."

"Who posted your letter?"

"Susan did."

"Exactly. Now, Susan, to whom was it that you wrote or sent a message to say that your mistress was asking advice from me?"

"It's a lie. I sent no message."

"Now, Susan, wheezy people may not live long, you know. Don't you agree that it's a wicked thing to lie, not knowing when God might choose to strike?" Luna murmured softly though it was loud enough for Holmes, Susan and myself to hear her though I was surprised by her words. Glancing over to her, I watched as she stared at the older woman, placing a piece of soft sponge into her mouth with a small smile which the consultant detective returned, throwing an uncharacteristic wink with it which brought colour to her cheeks.

"I fear I must agree dear. Now, tell me the truth."

"Susan!" cried her mistress, "I believe you are a bad, treacherous woman. I remember now that I saw you speaking to someone over the hedge."

"That was my own business," said the woman sullenly.

"Suppose I tell you that it was Barney Stockdale to whom you spoke?" said Holmes.

"Well, if you know, what do you want to ask for?"

"I was not sure, but I know now. Well now, Susan, it will be worth ten pounds to you if you will tell me who is at the back of Barney."

"Someone that could lay down a thousand pounds for every ten you have in the world."

"So, a rich man? Wait, no, no, no. you smiled so… a rich woman?" Luna inquired innocently, staring up at her.

"Ah, now we got so far, you may as well give the name and earn yourself a tenner." The moment those words left him mouth, my sister's face dropped slightly which caused me to wonder what caused such a reaction but I didn't voice it, choosing to instead wait.

"I'll see you in hell first."

"Oh, Susan! Language!"

"I am clearing out of here. I've had enough of you all. I'll send for my box tomorrow." She flounced for the door.

"Good-bye, Susan. Paregoric is the stuff... Now," he continued, turning suddenly from lively to severe when the door had closed behind the flushed and angry woman, "this gang means business. Look how close they play the game. Your letter to me had the 10 P.M. postmark. And yet Susan passes the word to Barney. Barney has time to go to his employer and get instructions; he or she - I incline to the latter from Susan's grin when she thought my pet had blundered - forms a plan. Black Steve is called in, and I am warned off by eleven o'clock next morning. That's quick work, you know."

"But what do they want?"

"Yes, that's the question. Who had the house before you?"

"A retired sea captain called Ferguson."

"Anything remarkable about him?"

"Not that ever I heard of."

"Mmm, perhaps he buried some treasure in the lovely back garden I can admire through the window though of course, nowadays people bury them in the Post-Office bank but there are always some lunatics around like you, Sherlock." My sister joked, standing up to move around the room, her body swaying from side to side as though she heard a symphony no one else could. Her movements could only be described as playful, glancing over her shoulder to the imposing figure of Holmes cheekily. It was that moment when I realised how she felt towards my friend. That was the second it all clicked into place but I couldn't dwell.

"You wound me darling, wound me to very core!" he claimed, raising a hand to his forehead as though a damsel in distress, causing her to laugh such a delightful giggle. Never before had I heard a sound like that leave her mouth, not since the death of our mother and it was a good thing to hear. With a smile, she moved to his side, her arm hooking through and resting lightly on the crease of his elbow. His other hand, which wasn't holding his walking stick, clasped hers .

"It would be a very dull world without you in it, my dear Sherlock, of that you can be assured."

"At first, I thought it could've been something valuable, hidden. But why, in that case, should they want all of your furniture? You don't happen to have a Raphael or a first folio Shakespeare without knowing about it perhaps?" he asked, obviously choosing to return to the case at hand though I noticed his eyes wondered to my sister every few moments, as though they couldn't stray further than a few feet.

"No, I don't think I have anything rarer than a Crown Derby tea-set."

"That would hardly justify all this mystery. Besides, why should they not openly state what they want? If they covet your tea-set, they can surely offer a price for it without buying you out, lock, stock, and barrel. No, as I read it, there is something which you do not know that you have, and which you would not give up if you did know."

"That is how I read it," said I, speaking for the first time a while. Admittedly, I found it rather amusing to watch their interactions, now that I had my suspicions about the feelings buried beneath their actions.

"Dr Watson agrees, so that settles it."

"Well, don't I feel included? Does my opinion suddenly count for nought?"

"Of course not my dear… your opinion means the world to me but at this moment, I know for a fact that you would agree with me and your favoured brother."

"He's my only brother Sherlock." She told him, an eye roll to accompany her words.

"Which makes him your favoured by default. Please, engage your brain before you engage your mouth, you're much better than such carelessness."

"Well, Mr Holmes, what can it be?" Mrs Maberley asked, seeming to grow tired of watching them banter.

"Let us see whether by this purely mental analysis we can get it to a finer point. You have been in this house a year."

"Nearly two."

"All the better. During this long period no one wants anything from you. Now suddenly within three or four days you have urgent demands. What would you gather from that?"

"It can only mean," said I, "that the object, whatever it may be, has only just come into the house."

"Settled once again," said Holmes. "Now, Mrs Maberley has any object just arrived?"

"No, I have bought nothing new this year."

"Indeed! That is very remarkable. Well, I think we had best let matters develop a little further until we have clearer data. Is that lawyer of yours a capable man?"

"Mr Sutro is most capable."

"Have you another maid, or was the fair Susan, who has just banged your front door alone?"

"I have a young girl."

"Then, my dear Watson, I think it would be in the best interest of our newest client, if you spend a restless night here with your revolver." Holmes told me which I agreed to wholeheartedly. The elderly woman would benefit more with a man in the house who could offer some protection.

"Against whom?"

"Who knows? The matter is certainly obscure. If I can't find what they are after, I must approach the matter from the other end and try to get at the principal. Did this house-agent man give any address?"

"Simply his card and occupation. Haines-Johnson, Auctioneer and Valuer."

"I don't think we shall find him in the directory. Honest business men don't conceal their place of business. Well, you will let me know any fresh development. I have taken up your case, and you may rely upon it that I shall see it through."

As we passed through the hall, Holmes' eyes, which missed no details whatsoever, lighted upon several trunks and cases which were piled up into a corner. The labels shone out upon them, drawing all of our attentions.

"'Milano.' 'Lucerne.' These are from Italy."

"They are poor Douglas's things."

"You have not unpacked them? How long have you had them?"

"They arrived last week."

"But you said - why, surely this might be the missing link. How do we know that there is not something of value there?"

"There could not possibly be, Mr Holmes. Poor Douglas had only his pay and a small annuity. What could he have of value?". That was when Holmes began to get lost in thought, his eyes taking on a dream like quality which, Luna felt, needed to be commented on. As per usual, she was quick to the wicket with a smart reply.

"I fear he may be sometime in that large mind of his madam. Believe me when I tell you that he will drift off in the most awkward situations. Though, as he had appointed an excellent protector to stand guard tonight, my older brother, I feel as though I should warn you of my presence also." She said but before either one of us could tell it wasn't necessary, she raised a hand to silence both mine and Mrs Maberley's responses. "Please. You will not need the extra protection but I don't wish to sit back at home, worrying for my brother's safety when my blade could offer some further use then poking a burning log in the fire. Plus, with this precaution, it doesn't mean that he must be awake all night as I shall be here also." She finished, causing my protests to die in my throat. I couldn't find fault in her logic, despite my efforts to do so. I blame Holmes for teaching her such trickery.

"Delay no longer, Mrs Maberley," the detective said at last, drifting back to us from the deep abyss of his excellent brain. "Have these things taken upstairs to your bedroom. Examine them as soon as you are able and see what they contain. I will come tomorrow to collect Dr Watson and will hear your report then." By what he said, I doubt that he heard what my loving, if not protective, sister had told the elderly woman. Deciding to leave that particular announcement to her, I continued to follow the couple out, their arms interlinked.

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It was quite evident that The Three Gables was under very close surveillance, for as we came around the high edge at the end of the lane, there was the black prize-fighter standing in the shadows. We came on him quite suddenly, and a grim and menacing figure he looked in that lonely place. In retaliation, Holmes clapped his hand to his pocket.

"Looking for your gun, Mister Holmes?"

"Why would he need a gun, Steve? I have a cane if needs be and trust me, greater men than you have fallen to their knees at its mercy." Luna boasted subtly, her eyes narrowed but Sherlock carefully guided her to stand behind him, as though protecting her with his body. Agreeing with his idea, I took hold of her arm and placed her behind myself as well. She might have had a weapon but that brute had wondering eyes and his fists. When together, the combination could be most deadly.

"No, for my scent-bottle, Steve."

"You are funny, Mister Holmes, aren't you?"

"It won't be funny for you, Steve, if I get after you. I gave you fair warning this morning."

"Well, Mister Holmes, I done gone think over what you said, and I don't want no more talk about that affair of Mister Perkins. Suppose I can help you, Mister Holmes, I will."

"Well, then, tell me who is behind you on this job."

"So help me the Lord! Mister Holmes, I told you the truth before. I don't know. My boss Barney gives me orders and that's all."

"Well, just bear in mind, Steve, that the lady in that house, and everything under that roof, is under my protection. Don't forget it." My friend reminded him, his eyes flickering to the trembling woman behind me. At first, I though it may have been in fear but the expression on her face chased that though away. It was one of pure loathing.

"All right, Mister Holmes. I'll remember."

"I've got him thoroughly frightened for his own skin, Watson," Holmes remarked as we walked on. "I think he would double-cross his employer if he knew who he was. It was lucky I had some knowledge of the Spencer John crowd, and that Steve was one of them. Now, Watson, this is a case for Langdale Pike, and I am going to see him now. When I get back I may be clearer in the matter."

"Then while you do that, I shall take a nap before me and John find ourselves back here to keep an eye on your newest client." Luna informed casually, moving to the carriage but Holmes stopped her with a hand on her shoulder

"I am certain that I didn't tell you to accompany him tonight."

"No, you didn't but you also didn't tell me that I couldn't accompany him so I decided to make use of myself instead of anxiously waiting for news about either one of you."

"I do not want you anywhere near that house tonight. Am I understood?" For the first time, she seemed to back down with a sigh, allowing him to actually order her around. Usually, she fought against my decisions for her safety every step of the way but she simply surrendered to him.

"John, please inform Mrs Maberley that I will not be there because of our idiotic friend whom believes me incapable of protecting myself for I am but a mere woman. Next, he will be preaching that I belong chained to the kitchen sink with Mrs Hudson and that I should get married off so I can bare children by the dozen." She muttered.

"Oh fine. Go if you must. I wonder why your brother and I try to keep you safe, especially when you have expressed such a disregard in your own safety."

"It is because I know that I am safe with what you have taught me over the months. Also, I have the best person covering my back, in case things do go pear shaped." She told him confidently, turning around and pressing a kiss to Holmes' cheek with a smile.

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_**Please review … x **_


	3. The Three Gables Chapter Three

_**Here is the latest addition to ' The Three Gables' case. I hope you all enjoy it.**_

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_I would like to dedicate this chapter to: Lulu-fifi (Thank you very much and the story is currently in 4__th__ place. As for Jeremy Brett, he is my favourite TV Victorian Sherlock. Benedict Cumberbatch is my favourite modern Sherlock. Robert Downey Jr is my favourite film Sherlock… I can't just have one because I love them all so much… except Basil Rathbone. I don't like him much or when Tom Baker was him. For me, he was an amazing Doctor but no a good Sherlock.)_

_James Birdsong ( Thank you very much!)_

_MissGuardianAngel (I am very glad you think so but I am sure that there are many stories out there that are much better than this. However, thank you. It is the best compliment a writer can have. Thank you very much again for adding it to your favourites list.)_

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_I would also like to dedicate it to:_

_Hitsugaya Aiko_

_Arabbitheartofgold_

_Phantomhawk-writer_

_Thank you all for adding it to your alerts. I know this may seem stupid but I think it's important to thank everybody so THANK YOU!_

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_Please accept these cyber cookies as a token of my appreciation. _

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My sister and I were able to get back to the Three Gables before the sun had set. Mrs Maberley and her remaining house maid Sally, now that Susan had left, greeted us warmly before treating us to a small dinner which wasn't dis-similar to what Mrs Hudson usually prepared for us. Luna engaged both ladies in idle chit-chat, seeming to enjoy herself, chatting casually with women instead of myself or Holmes. It wasn't until then that I realised just how much we influenced her subjects of conversation. When allowed to speak freely, with no expected topics from her, she spoke of poetry and literature she'd read. Some of it, I didn't even think was to her taste, such as medical text books from my study or frivolous romance novels that resembled real life as much as Dracula did, though it seemed she only enjoyed pointing out their faults.

After eating, we were settled into the sitting room where we continued our discussion though the subject soon turned to Douglas' childhood and Mrs Maberley's late husband, Mortimer. Sadly, I had never had chance to meet the brave man but after an hour of looking through a box of mementos she'd brought out, I felt like I'd known him both of our lifetimes.

"I was on my way to India," She began, regaling us with the story of how she met her husband. From the look on my sister's face, she found it all extremely dull but I will give her credit where it is due, the smile she wore did look vaguely true though her eyes gave it away. "A governess to a family when I met my dear Mortimer. He was going the other way. Oh!" she picked up a very old and battered tanned coloured hat from the box. "This was the hat he was wearing over sixty years ago!"

I couldn't contain a chuckle when she placed that ruined old hat onto her hat, despite the dust that had built up over the years." But you never got to India?"

"No. I turned back and went for him. Oh, the fuss! You see, he was a penniless salesman at the time. Um… Gripe water! You know, the thing for baby's tummies?". I chuckled again at the item he had had so much trouble selling. Of course, no one would possibly wish to buy it unless they had a restless baby with stomach pain as it had no other uses whatsoever.

"But in his heart and soul," Mrs Maberley continued, "There was adventure. Ah, all the places we planned to visit all over the world." She sighed, removing the hat from her head. "We never left Harrow.".

From the corner of my eye, I saw Luna reach over and pick up an old picture of Douglas, when he was just a young lad. Standing next to him was a beaded man who had a rather tall and strong stature. "Is this Mortimer with Douglas?" she asked, handing her the picture as sudden interest gripped her but the old woman seemed thrilled when she looked at the picture.

"Oh, good heavens! Have I kept that? Oh, how wonderful! Oh. They dotted on each other; they were alike in so many ways. Two peas in a pod."

I watched her stroke the picture thoughtfully, no doubt remembering a both sad and blissful memory about the two men she had loved dearly in her life but it only seemed to bring up a question that I'd had since she brought the memory box out.

"And what happened to his mother and father?"

Her eyes never once strayed from the picture as she explained. "Oh… my son and his wife were killing in a climbing accident in Snowdonia when Douglas was only two years old. We brought him up as one of our own you see."

* * *

It was late when I finally went up to the guestroom that had been prepared for my overnight stay at the home as a protector of sorts. I was determined to do what Holmes asked me to do and not sleep that night, accepting the assignment I was trusted with though it did bring back memories of being in the service.

My sister, claiming that her insomnia had kicked in once more, though this time with a vengeance, had decided to stay in the sitting room with a candle and good book from the large library. Admittedly, my eyes were drooping against my will due to the peaceful silence that had enveloped the house but when a loud scream, followed by a shout, pierced the air, I sprung from the chair and hurried out of the room with my revolver clasped tightly in my right hand.

When I got to the stairs, I saw the elderly Mrs Maberley, who I believed would be in bed, laying on the bottom few steps as though she'd been pushed and landed there. Her wrinkled skin was incredibly pale, probably from shock, and I saw that she clutched something white tightly in her hands, holding it against her chest as though to protect it. A moment later, I saw a trio of shadows disappear behind a corner. Wanting to get to my sister quickly, but not leave my charge unaided, I came down the stairs as quickly as I was able.

"Mrs Maberley!" I called, dropping to her side. Placing my revolver beside her, I took hold of her shoulders in order to break the shocked silence. When I did however, she grabbed my elbow and tried to push me away from her. At first, I believed that she may have been frightened of me but when I looked into her eyes, I didn't see fear. No. instead, I saw worry.

"Leave me!" she insisted, her voice crooked from her earlier scream "Go after them! They've got it!"

Realising that it must have been the thing that Steve Dixie, of rather his employer, wished to own that was in her possession.

Allowing my old military behaviour to set in, I grabbed my revolver and sprinted towards the side door of the kitchen with all the might I could muster, leaving the old woman behind but in the capable hands of her maid.

When I got outside, I headed straight towards the thick foliage that surrounded the border. In my mind, it would have been a logical choice as a hiding place as it was easy to hide within the shadows cast by the overgrown bushes. I strained my ears, attempting to hear the slightest disturbance but instead, I was rewarded with a sharp gasp. To my surprise, it was too deep to be a woman's so I knew that my sister hadn't been the one to give it. Running towards it, I was in time to witness a large figure kick a slumped one on the floor, surrounded by the broken glass of the summer house. When the attacker saw me however, he escaped over the garden wall, allowing me to go to the injured one without fear of being attacked once my back was turned.

The closer I got, the clearer the image got until it was clear.

The injured party was my dear younger sibling.

Luna.

Getting to my knees, I carefully moved her hair from her forehead, trying to assess the damage that the brute had inflicted on her beautiful face. Her porcelain complexion was ruined by large dark splodges of bruises, one resembling a hand on her right cheek. The left eye was swollen, the other bleeding slightly from a piece of stray glass. When my hand rested upon the marked cheek, her right eye fluttered open, the other unable to do so due to the injury.

"J-John." She murmured, a small smile twitching her lips upwards.

"You silly girl. You should have waited for me. I could have protected you." At this, she gave a weak chuckle that lacked humour.

"You can't protect me f-forever."

"I can bloody well try darling. Now, relax. I must move you to the house so I can treat your injuries though I fear you may not be able to see well for a little while."

"H-He's worse off. I swear it."

"Of course he is dear. Of course he is."

* * *

The next morning, I sent a telegram to Holmes, telling him that it was of extreme importance that he hightailed it over to The Three Gables. Of course, Luna tried to downplay the injuries she had sustained, telling me that they weren't as bad as they first appeared but she failed to remember that I was, in fact, a trained doctor and could spot the signs of a concussion from twelve paces. Still, despite her dizziness and the soreness of her body, she insisted on being moving to the sofa in the sitting room where Sally set her up with a large wool blanket, pillow and a large breakfast in order to 'lift her spirits'. After eating a boiled egg, she claimed to be full and insisted I finished the other and the toast. I tried to get her to eat but she refused, telling me that she had had enough and I was to eat it or it would only go to waste.

When the detective arrived, before going up to Mrs Maberley whom rested in her bed due to the shock of the attack and the lingering effects of chloroform, he entered the sitting room. His reaction to the battered and bruised lady was indeed difficult to describe though I promise you, I have done my very best to portray it. His eyes, usually so wise and sharp, briefly darted all over her body as though to assess the damage caused. His face, usually so cold, distant, showed a flicker of rare emotion as he hurried over to her side, taking her hand carefully in his own as though she was nothing more than a large piece of fine china.

"My dear, what happened to you?" he asked, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. She seemed to smile at that though it was nothing more than a twitch of the lips.

"Our friend, Steve Dixie, happened. I chased after him, hoping to injury him enough that he wouldn't be able to get away. Alas, he managed to get a good right hook in before I drew my weapon, knocking it from my hands." She explained. He nodded, taking in the information before placing a kiss onto her bandaged knuckles.

"Though it seems you got some hits in my pet."

"Well, I couldn't have you disappointed in me because I didn't use what you've taught me… that I didn't try to defend myself."

"I assure you, I could never be disappointed in you." I didn't know what it was, that made me think that maybe, just maybe, he reciprocated the secret fancies of my younger sister. I couldn't tell you if it was the sincerity that he had in his eyes when he spoke to her, if it was the way he behaved around the injured woman but, then again, I didn't know if he altered his behaviour because he believed her to be vulnerable at that time.

"Then, I thank you but I don't suffer that fault and I would have been disappointed if I went down without fighting. Now, go upstairs and speak to your client, collect the vital clue you have been searching for to end this case so I may return to 221b and change. I hate this feeling of uselessness and John is only reinforcing it with excuses about my health." Luna told him, glancing over at me who sat beside her in an arm chair. It had been my place during the rest of the night, in case she was in need of assistance but she had simply laid there, staring at the wall.

He nodded to her then moved over to the door, exiting the room though a moment later, he poked his head back through.

"Though, my dear, you do seem to add a certain… flare to the atmosphere. You dress it up better than a fine oil painting, a beautifully crafted marble statue or the most spectacular flower arrangement. Perhaps, your favoured brother and I should consider striking a deal with the owner of the house." With that said, he left and the familiar tread of his feet was heard going up the stairs, followed by the light giggle of Luna who tried to cover the blush that settled on her cheeks.

"Luna, may I ask you a question?"

"Anything John, though I cannot promise you that I will answer it with complete honesty."

"Do you… harbour feelings for Sherlock Holmes?" A thick silence followed my question while she stared at me.

"How did you ever find out? You're deduction skills are definitely improving." Luna told me as a small smile crept its way onto my face at the revelation of me being correct. It felt rather nice.

"Don't worry, I shall not tell him of where your affections lie but I cannot help but wonder. From all the men in London, all of those suitors whom our f-he tried to make you a match with, why decide to give your affections to him?"

"I'm receiving the feeling that my big brother doesn't approve." She joked.

Did I? I couldn't tell you. There is forever a fine line between love and hate. If she loved him, how long would it take for it to turn? What if his lack of response pushed her away from the flat? It wasn't that I didn't approve; I liked Sherlock and would be delighted for my sister should she be able to obtain his affections but I didn't want either of the people I care about most to get hurt.

"If you love him, I will not order you to stop because, deep down, I think he knows exactly how you feel." That was when she surprised me in a way I didn't think she was capable. Holmes? Yes. Luna? No.

"Oh, he does know. As you probably guessed, he knew before I did and enjoyed teasing me about it for a while."

"Does he return the sentiment?" I inquired as innocently and as casually as I could. Truly, I was curious to know if he did love her back, or at least have some affection towards her. Of course, he did treat her with respect and the like but it would have been nice to know _exactly _how _deep _the feelings ran beneath the cold exterior of the detective. Was it even possible for him to return them or was he truly married to his work?

Despite my feelings towards my friend, flat mate and bonded brother, I would encourage my young sister to bestow her affection elsewhere if he didn't want them. Sherlock Holmes, consultant detective and pain in the neck, might not wish to be committed to another person but I wish for her to have a husband and one day, bring a nephew into this world so I may spoil him rotten.

"I don't know. After I told him, we've never spoken about it. I don't wish to. If we speak about it, it may change the friendship we have and I wouldn't give that up for anything offered to me."

"You wouldn't give away his friendship, even if his heart was offered to you?"

"No."

"But why ever not?"

"You and I both know that Sherlock is a very complex man. He enjoys what he does for a living, despite the things he's witnessed and experienced. That… enigma, for lack of a better word, could never truly be happy if kept in any sense of captivity, the same as I. Courtship and marriage hold no true bearing in my life, and never will. I wish for no children to share my features or carry on my husband's name. I dream of no small home in the country without the constant fog that hangs over London. This… this life is my dream." Touched by her words, I couldn't help but move to sit beside her then embrace her tightly, unthinking of her injuries until a pained hiss left her mouth.

With a start, I jumped away though she only laughed, resting her head on my shoulder. At times, she didn't act as though she had only been on the earth for thirty-five years, acting as though she was still the little child I would be forced to supervise when I wished to go and play with my friends. Of course, the twelve year age gap was troublesome at the time for I had no sense of responsibility at the time. But then, at others, she could bring forth an anger that had grown men stumbling over her feet to escape. I blame it on the harshness of our father when raising her.

From the off, he wanted another son so when he received a daughter, he wasn't the happiest man in England. Straight away, he didn't hesitate to tell her that he had no feeling for her, whatsoever as she was a disappointment. She was given the blame for everything, even if it couldn't be prevented such as when he got his job taken from him. He had come home that evening, his face red in anger and cold from the chilling winter night. Concerned, the five year old Luna had asked him if he was well or if he needed a hug to cheer him up. Despite the way he treated her, she still remained civil to him but he wished for no such nonsense.  
At the time, I was helping mother serve dinner and all I can remember of that day was the heart-breaking shriek. She ran into the dining room, clutching her left cheek which was rapidly growing darker as a bruise appeared. Since then, she never spoke to him, choosing instead to keep her head down as to avoid punishment which did work. She withdrew into herself when he yelled then would sneak into my room at night, seeking comfort in her older brother's arms which I was never opposed to giving. On more than one occasion, mother had found us asleep in my bed, her resting against my chest.

"I love you big brother." She whispered, her eyes beginning to droop slightly from exhaustion. Pressing a kiss to her head, I carefully moved so she could lay down as to avoid back pain.

"As I love you little sister."

* * *

_**Thank you for reading!**_

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	4. The Three Gables Chapter Four

_**Here is the latest part of 'The three gables' case. Hope you like it. **_

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_I'd like to dedicate this to 'Guest' ( whoever you are, thank you very much!) and Lulu-fifi (Thank you… but between us, my hole is my bed and yes, I do get internet lol! )_

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That afternoon, the three of us were at Baker Street. Holmes had demanded that Luna wasn't to stay in that house and instead, he got Mrs Maberley's lawyer to stay with her as some form of protection. The lady of our trio was feeling and looking much better after a few hours of proper rest though she didn't occupy her favourite place at Holmes' feet. Instead, she sat in the chair beside him which didn't fail to make me chuckle.

Once we were settled in front of the blazing fire, Sherlock began to read the only page we had of what was taken.

"…My face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it was nothing to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face, the face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life, looking out at his agony and humiliation. She smiled—yes, by Heaven! She smiled, like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked up at her. It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Man must live for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, then it shall surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge."

"Strange… I can't put my finger on what but something about that just didn't seem correct."

"Queer grammar!" said Holmes with a smile as he handed the paper to my little sister. "Did you notice how the 'he' suddenly changed to 'my'? The writer was so carried away by his own story that he imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero."

"It seemed mighty poor stuff," I told him, placing the piece of paper onto the small table beside my chair.

"Ah see, Watson. Another pair of eyes is invaluable in this trade. Did you know that Mrs Maberley wishes to travel the world?" he asked, a certain sparkle in his eyes. A moment later, he leapt from his chair and out of the door. Looking over to my sister, she only smiled and got up, pulling on Holmes' coat which he left in his haste. Taking her cane in hand, which she leant on more than usual, she moved from the flat, following the man who had taken her heart. Knowing nothing else, I decided to follow them.

* * *

When were all sat down in a carriage, on the way to some unknown location, he began to speak once more.

"Now, Watson, darling, we are at the last lap of our little journey," Holmes told us when we back in the roar of central London once more. "I think we had best clear the matter up at once, and it would be well that you should come with me, for it is safer to have a witness when you're dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein. As for you, my dear, you can stay outside."

"According to who?"

"Me, now do as I say."

"Not going to happen Sherlock".

"I didn't think it would but you cannot blame a man for trying."

We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address in Grosvenor Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but he roused himself suddenly.

"By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?"

"No, I can't say that I do. I only gather that we are going to see the lady who is behind all this mischief."

"What about you, pet? Do you see it?" he asked, looking to his right where my sister had been gazing out of the window, her eyes slowly drooping shut. With a small yawn, sloppily concealed by her hand, she answered.

"Douglas was having some sort of affair with someone of a much higher class then himself. She'd have probably been rich, if I had to hazard a guess, as they attract all the attention. Either that or she is a pure breed. Someone found out about the affair, blackmailed the pair to stop or their secret would be revealed to the press?" she stated though, near the end, it took on a more inquiring tone. She wasn't sure but Holmes' seemed happy at her deduction as he picked up her hand and placed a kiss onto her knuckles.

"Almost! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing to you? She was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was never a woman to touch her. As you said dear, she is a pure Spanish, the real blood of the masterful Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders in Pernambuco for generations.-" He began but Luna interrupted.

"So she isn't rich? Hard to believe…" Holmes' sighed in irritation, whipping his head to the side so he could half-heartedly glare at her.

"If you would allow me to finish."

"I'm sorry. Proceed."

"She married the aged German sugar king, Klein, and presently found herself the richest as well as the most lovely widow upon Earth. Then there was an interval of adventure when she pleased her own tastes. She had several lovers, and Douglas Maberley, one of most striking men London had to offer, was one of them. It was by all accounts more than an adventure with him. He was not a society butterfly but a strong, proud man whom gave and expected all. But she is the 'belle dame sans merci' of fiction. When her caprice is satisfied the matter is ended, and if the other party in the matter can't take her word for it, she knows how to bring it home to him."

"Evil… vindictive… ruthless…" Luna mumbled, her hand muffling her words slightly but even I could understand the curse that flew from her lips, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at her.

"Such un-lady like language."

"Which I shall use when the person I'm speaking about isn't a lady herself."

"She was only trying to protect her reputation… how was she to know that the beating would kill him?" he rationalised but she simply glared at him, her eyes narrowed and the blue sapphires flashing dangerously.

"Then that was his own story -"

"Yes Watson, you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about to marry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son. His Grace's ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would be a different matter, so it is imperative"

"Sherlock, I'm in love with you. That would be like me and you having an affair but when you got bored of me, getting John to take his cane to me until I begged you to stop… all the while; you simply stood there, watching him do it! How is that, by any stretch of the imagination, acceptable?" she shrieked, looking at him sadly.

I couldn't speak. She had openly admitted her feelings to him and despite me already knowing of her affections, his reaction wasn't what I expected. Somewhere, deep down, I wished he would tell her the same but I knew that would never happen, no matter how hard I hoped. Sherlock Holmes didn't fall in love. Love was a distraction. Love wouldn't be accepted at all.

"No, once again, you have the situation mistaken with another. If that was actually to occur, your brother would brutally attack me with his cane before laying a finger on your person. Then, you would take your blade to me, stabbing me repeatedly. When I was dead, you would both apply my methods to hide my corpse from Scotland Yard though, I fear, you could tie me to the front gate with a pair of signed confessions and they still wouldn't understand. Also, you're forgetting something very important."

"And what, if you don't mind me asking, am I missing?"

"I would never get bored of you because I… ah! Here we are!" I couldn't help but wonder what he would have said if the journey had been only a few minutes longer and, if Luna's face was anything to go by, she did as well though she seemed rather adapted to these interruptions. Deciding to follow her actions, I looked from the window of our carriage.

* * *

_**Thank you for reading!**_

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	5. The Three Gables Chapter Five

_**Here is the last 'official' chapter of ' The Three Gables' though I will warn you, there is a small filler between this and ' The Dying Detective'. Also, I have a small question… Should I do 'The Adventure of Mazarin Stone'? I have to admit that it isn't one of my favourites as John wasn't the one to write it. **_

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_I would love to dedicate this chapter to: 'Guest'(I will update as quickly as possible love, don't worry!) and Lulu-fifi (Thank you darlin', I'm glad that you like it! X x x )_

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The house we arrived at was one of finest corner-houses of the West End. When our cab stopped, a machine-like footman took up our cards and returned with word that the lady was not at the house.

"It's fine. We have nowhere else to be, do we Sherlock?"

"No darling, I find us dismally under booked so we shall wait until she is home," Holmes said cheerfully, casually leaning on his walking stick beside my sister though one hand did move to pick up hers, intertwining their fingers but neither of them seemed to notice. For some reason, unknown to me, the thought that they didn't realise unsettled me slightly.

However, their act caused the machine to break down.

"Not at home means not at home to you," said the footman.

"Good," Holmes answered. "That means that we shall not have to wait. Kindly give this note to your mistress." Releasing his stick, which he held with his right hand, he scribbled three or four words upon a sheet in the notebook which never left his jacket pocket, folded it carefully then handed it over to the man who proceeded to leave back into the house.

"What did you say, Holmes?" I asked.

"I simply wrote: 'Shall it be the police, then?' I think that should pass us in."

It did - with amazing celerity. A minute later we were in an Arabian Nights drawing-room, vast and wonderful, in a half gloom, picked out with an occasional pink electric light. The lady had come, I felt, to that time of life when even the proudest beauty finds the half-light more welcome. She rose from a settee as we entered: tall, queenly, a perfect figure, a lovely mask-like face, with two wonderful Spanish eyes which looked murder at us all.

"What is this intrusion - and this insulting message?" she asked, holding up the slip of paper.

"I need not explain, madam. I have too much respect for your intelligence to do so - though I confess that intelligence has been surprisingly at fault of late."

"I'd kindly explain to the pretentious twit for, unlike you Sherlock, her beauty does nothing to my senses and I refuse to give her credit for the intelligence which has been born from fear." My sister announced, her eyes narrowed at the woman. For my place, half a foot to her left, I could see the wheels in her mind turning. It was now obvious that the woman before us had been the one to arrange the attack on Holmes which also meant, she was responsible for the attack on her own person.

"How very dare you!"

"Oh I dare. Because of you, my brother could've been hurt by the set of thugs you hired to frighten Sherlock from his work. Think about it very carefully. Surely, no man would take up his profession if it were not the danger that attracts him. By sending someone to threaten him, his curiosity and eagerness grew so really, you were your own down fall. Funny, isn't it? Chain reactions." She drawled, her face perfectly smooth of any emotion though her eyes burned with it.

"How so, sir?" the lady asked, turning to my friend. Even I could see that my sister had shaken her, just by the way she stood. Her head was held high though her hands quivered slightly by her sides.

"It was you who forced me to examine the case of young Maberley."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. What have I to do with hired bullies?" Holmes turned away wearily.

"Yes, I have underrated your intelligence. Well, good-afternoon!"

"Stop! Where are you going?"

"If the answer isn't Scotland Yard Sherlock, I cannot be held accountable by my actions."

* * *

We had not got halfway to the door before she had overtaken us and was holding his arm. She had turned in a moment from steel to velvet.

"Come and sit down, gentlemen. Let us talk this matter over. I feel that I may be frank with you, Mr Holmes. You have the feelings of a gentleman. How quick a woman's instinct is to find it out. I will treat you as a friend." At that sentence, Luna visibly tensed, obviously not appreciating the seductive tone towards the man she loved. Holmes, seeing this, cautiously slipped an arm around her waist and pulling her into his side.

"I cannot promise to reciprocate, madam. I am not the law, but I represent justice so far as my feeble powers go. I am ready to listen, and then I will tell you how I will act."

"No doubt it was foolish of me to threaten a brave man like yourself."

"I'm sorry but could you please answer me this? Will you be attempting to seduce him the whole time? If so, may I leave?". The older woman smirked, taking a step towards her in a threatening matter.

"What is wrong? Is Mr Holmes' pet feeling a little envious? Afraid that he may be swayed?"

"Do you want to know something? I no longer care. If you are adamant in your belief that he will allow nothing more than a common whore seduce him, I will not shatter your delusions. Sherlock, John, I will be outside in the cab." With that said, she tried to move away but the detective yanked her back towards him.

"Take this time to rest. We shall not be long darling." Bending slightly, he pressed a kiss to her cheek and allowed her to leave, a large man escorting her out by the elbow though it didn't seem forceful. In fact, they were murmuring softly to each other.

"What was really foolish, madam, is that you have placed yourself in the power of a band of rascals who may blackmail or give you away." Sherlock continued, as if nothing happened between the two women.

"No, no! I am not so simple. Since I have promised to be frank, I may say that no one, save Barney Stockdale and Susan, his wife, have the least idea who their employer is. As to them, well, it is not the first -" She smiled and nodded with a charming coquettish intimacy.

"l see. You've tested them before."

"They are good hounds who run silent."

"Such hounds have a way sooner or later of biting the hand that feeds them. They will be arrested for this burglary. The police are already after them."

"They will take what comes to them. That is what they are paid for. I shall not appear in the matter."

"Unless I bring you into it."

"No, no, you would not. You are a gentleman. It is a woman's secret."

"In the first place, you must give back this manuscript."

She broke into a ripple of laughter and walked to the fireplace. There was a burnt mass which she broke up with the poker. "Shall I give this back?" she asked. So roguish and exquisite did she look as she stood before us with a challenging smile that I felt of all Holmes's criminals this was the one whom he would find it hardest to face. However, he was immune from sentiment.

"That seals your fate," he said coldly. "You are very prompt in your actions, madam, but you have overdone it on this occasion."

She threw the poker down with a clatter.

"How hard you are!" she cried. "May I tell you the whole story?"

"I fancy I could tell it to you."

"But you must look at it with my eyes, Mr Holmes. You must realize it from the point of view of a woman who sees all her life's ambition about to be ruined at the last moment. Is such a woman to be blamed if she protects herself?"

"The original sin was yours."

"Yes, yes! I admit it. He was a dear boy, Douglas, but it so chanced that he could not fit into my plans. He wanted marriage -marriage, Mr Holmes - with a penniless commoner. Nothing less would serve him. Then he became pertinacious. Because I had given he seemed to think that I still must give, and to him only. It was intolerable. At last I had to make him realize it."

"By hiring ruffians to beat him under your own window."

"You do indeed seem to know everything. Well, it is true. Barney and the boys drove him away, and were, I admit, a little rough in doing so. But what did he do then? Could I have believed that a gentleman would do such an act? He wrote a book in which he described his own story. I, of course, was the wolf; he the lamb. It was all there, under different names, of course; but who in all London would have failed to recognize it? What do you say to that, Mr Holmes?"

"Well, he was within his rights."

"It was as if the air of Italy had got into his blood and brought with it the old cruel Italian spirit. He wrote to me and sent me a copy of his book that I might have the torture of anticipation. There were two copies, he said - one for me, one for his publisher."

"How did you know the publisher's had not reached him?"

"I knew who his publisher was. It is not his only novel, you know. I found out that he had not heard from Italy. Then came Douglas's sudden death. So long as that other manuscript was in the world there was no safety for me. Of course, it must be among his effects, and these would be returned to his mother. I set the gang at work. One of them got into the house as servant. I wanted to do the thing honestly. I really and truly did. I was ready to buy the house and everything in it. I offered any price she cared to ask. I only tried the other way when everything else had failed. Now, Mr Holmes, granting that I was too hard on Douglas - and, God knows, I am sorry for it! - what else could I do with my whole future at stake?"

Sherlock Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, well," said he, "I suppose I shall have to compound a felony as usual. How much does it cost to go round the world in first-class style?"

The lady stared in amazement.

"Could it be done on five thousand pounds?"

"Well, I should think so, indeed!"

"Very good. I think you will sign me a check for that, and I will see that it comes to Mrs Maberley. You owe her a little change of air. Meantime, lady" - he wagged a cautionary forefinger - "have a care! Have a care! You can't play with edged tools forever without cutting those dainty hands."

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When we returned to the carriage, my sister was resting against the seat, showing the clear signs of a light slumber. Her eyes closed and her breathing was even and deep, her body relaxed and a small smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. With a smile of my own, I was about to slip into the seat beside her but Holmes' stopped me, gesturing to the seat across from her.

"It's okay Watson, take that one. I'll sit beside her." That sentence was all I needed to hear, to get an inkling of how he felt towards her. There is no doubt in my mind that they felt a certain way towards each other and, I will openly admit that Sherlock is a complex man to try and understand but it was obvious that he liked her in some way.

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	6. Hidden Truths And Muffins Come To Light

_**Okay… Here is a little bridge chapter between 'The Three Gables' and 'The Dying Detective.' I hope you like it but believe me, it's difficult to write like John Watson.**_

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_I'd love to dedicate this chapter to Guest (Thanks for thinking the last three chapters are cool.) and Lulu-fif (My first ever reviewer on this story… a friend despite the fact I hardly know you love and an amazing writer. For those who haven't read it, you should give 'A Public Wedding' a read! )_

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A month or so after the three gables case, I was invited to watch the most entertaining thing in the country. It was a dark chilly evening and I was forced to work late into the night as my practise was booked the entirely for the next few days as autumn brings a lot of illnesses, or so it did in my experience.

"Dr Watson, you must come quickly!" Looking up from the paper work I was filling in, I saw Mrs Hudson rush through the door to the small study which I had claimed as my office for that particular evening. Wisps of snowy grey hair had managed to escape the almost impossible tight confines of her bun, her pale cheeks flushed slightly, probably from rushing up the stairs and her dress was wrinkled near the bottom, showing that she probably trampled on it.

"What is it Mrs Hudson?" I asked, placing the papers down onto the polished oak top then clasping my hands together on top of the small stack of brown folders in front of me. She placed her hand onto the left side of her chest, as though its touch would calm the pounding of her heart.

"Your sister! She's wearing a pair of trousers with a shirt, like a man! Her and Sherlock are brawling in the living room, as though there is nothing at all wrong with it!" she shrieked loudly, waving her hands around like a raving mad lunatic. To be honest, I didn't wish to know what they were doing, knowing that it was usually the best strategy to take, but in order to keep our elderly land lady happy, I packed my stationary away into the top drawer of the desk. Between the three of us, we went through a lot of it so we agreed to claim a drawer each. Mine was the top drawer on the left, Sherlock's the top on the right and Luna's below mine though she usually only sketched or took notes on books.

Once everything was in order and the desk was tidy, I made my way down to the sitting room of out flat and what I saw rather shocked me.

In the middle of our sitting room was Sherlock and my sister, both of them slowly circling the other as though they were a vicious animal whom needed to be under constant surveillance. Their gazes were locked, never straying far from each other. Their faces showed no emotions, set into the perfect set of masks. The room was too silent for not even their footfalls made a sound and if they did, my ears couldn't pick them up. Standing by the door, I kept on watching, taking note of the attire my sister was wearing. Mrs Hudson, bless her soul, was entirely correct.

Luna wore a pair of black dress trousers, obviously belonging to Sherlock as my sister was about a head taller than me so mine would not fit her so well that they needed to be rolled up at the bottom as to avoid her tripping. However, she was wearing one of my freshly laundered shirts, a crisp white one though she had rolled up the full length sleeves so they came to only her elbow. It fell to around her hips, hanging loosely from her body and hiding the shape she owned extremely well. Another thing of mine she wore was a cap, hiding most of her curls except for two thick locks that hung at either side of her head, framing her face softly. If they were hidden, she would have been able to pass for a young lad.

The sight itself was actually a very amusing one.

A moment later, she leapt forward, pouncing onto Holmes though she didn't manage to touch him. Instead, he took a very well-timed step to his left, causing her to fall into his chair. Chuckling, she stood up and whipped around, throwing a fist at him though he caught it in his hand, quickly holding it to their sides. On instinct, she took a step forward.

"Focus dear. Stay at least two moves ahead or you will never manage to hit me." He whispered softly, raising one hand to move one of the stray curls behind her ear before releasing her. Ever since the Gables case, actions like that weren't uncommon ones. He seemed to enjoy touching her, whether it was just holding her hand or brushing her hair away from her face. Of course, he still hadn't confessed any feelings towards her but it was a start.

"Really, maybe I was distracting you" she murmured ominously before dropping to the floor and swiping her foot beneath his own, causing him to topple backwards. Taking advantage of the shock her opponent was in, she quickly straddled his waist and held his hands above his head, giggling the whole time. After a few seconds, his face cracked into a small smile as well, his deep chuckle joining her light laughter.

"Ah, good use of a distraction darling. You have me. Though, I fear we have an audience. Come on in Watson!" he called, startling me slightly though, as not to draw suspicion, I strolled in.

"Finally got beaten at a fight Holmes?" I inquired, raising an eyebrow while offering a hand to pull my sister off of him. She accepted, standing her on tip toes to press a small kiss to my cheek. Smiling, I returned the gesture though on her forehead.

"I fear I have though, as you saw, I was distracted."

"'Distractions are invaluable dear. If your opponent isn't fully present, take advantage.' I believe that's what you told me Sherlock. I have taken your advice and I came out victorious. Now, am I allowed a break? We've been at this for the last hour and a half." Inclining his head toward her, he closed his eyes in permission. Running up to him, she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him close for a brief period of time then repeated her action of kissing his cheek.

"Thank you! I really need to go and help Mrs Hudson. She said that she would be baking chocolate muffins which means that there will be left over mix for me to eat!" she announced childishly before running out of the room. Shaking my head at her behaviour, I sighed and looked towards my friend.

"Sometimes, I wonder about that girl." I shared, taking a seat in my low arm chair. Copying my action, he was seating in his place as he nodded.

"And yet, given the choice, you would not change her for anything in the world Watson." Yes, he was definitely correct about.

"Would you?"

"I don't think it's my decision to change anybody but… no. I wouldn't. I find myself extremely refreshed by her childlike mind set. I'm never bored around her as she has the habit of constantly changing her mind." Hearing that, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, I decided that it was about time to ask him the question that I'd been pondering for the longest time.

"How do you feel about her Holmes?"

"I… I don't know what you're speaking of Watson. Really, I thought you would have learned not to drag your words." He told me though I could hear the hesitation in his words. Knowing that I was on to something, I continued to interrogate him until he snapped.

"Do you have feelings for her?"

"Watson…"

"Do you Holmes'?"

"Watson, please."

"Do you?"

"Yes… for heaven's sake Watson, yes! I have feelings for your sister now leave me be! I can take no more of your infernal babbling."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of Sherlock. Especially when you already know that she feels the same way." Of course, having lived with the man for years, I knew when he didn't believe a word that came from my mouth and this was one of those times. With a sigh, I left him be.

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An hour later, Luna came skipping through the door. In her hands was a tray of delicious smelling baked treats, around her mouth was chocolate muffin mix and my shirt was covered in flour but I could overlook it because of the huge smile she had on her face as she walked over to us.

"I must say, these are the best muffins I have ever baked and Mrs Hudson agrees but I still need your opinions." She told us, handing us one each. Taking a bite, I hummed at the strong taste of chocolate and gave her a thumbs up, not wishing to speak with my mouth full. That would just be awful manners.

Holmes approached the task with great trepidation, settling only to nibble the side. It wasn't an unknown fact between Mrs Hudson, Holmes and myself that my sister wasn't the best cook in London. In fact, she could defy all logic and burn water if given the chance but it was obvious that our dear land lady had helped her with their creation so I definitely had no problems eating them.

"So what do you think?" she asked, biting her bottom lip slightly.

"They are your best batch Luna. You've done us proud."

"Yes darling, they are rather delicious where as your previous attempts were a little more… smoky in flavour. Fantastic job."

The happy girlish squeal she released almost shattered the windows but it was worth it.

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	7. The Dying Detective Chapter One

_**Okay, here is the first chapter of 'The Dying Detective', hope you like it!**_

_**As for the question posted on the last chapter, I think I will do all of the others and see how I feel about it at the end. As for the future after this story… I was thinking about doing 'The Casebook Of Sherlock Holmes And Luna Watson'. Thoughts?**_

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_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi (Thanks for thinking it was realistic, it was sort of based on a real experience although it was cooking. I can bake… cooking is just too difficult. As for the Mazarin Stone… hope you don't mind but I'll definitely give it a try.) and Guest (Thank you and I won't delete it on fear of death from some of the reviewers!) _

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Mrs Hudson, the landlady of my sister and Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first floor flat invaded at all hours of the day by throngs of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable lodger showed some sort of eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must have sorely tried her patience as it sometimes tried my own. His incredible untidiness, Luna's sleepless nights of pacing, his addiction to music at strange hours, her habit of singing along to the songs she knew, his occasional revolver practise within doors, her blade handling sessions which ends with Mrs Hudson's pillows being stabbed mercilessly, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments. The atmosphere of violence and danger that hung around the pair when they were together probably made them the worst tenants in London, despite how much I attempted to change them. On the other hand, their collective payment was rather princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased at the price which they'd paid for their rooms over the years that they'd been living there.

The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond of both him and my sister. My sister acted as a surrogate daughter for the elderly woman, allowing her to spend time brushing her hair or allowing the older woman to choose dresses for her in order to keep her happy. As for Sherlock, he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with the woman. He disliked and distrusted the sex, except the two whom he was in regular contact with, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine her regard was for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came up to my rooms in the first half year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor friend had been reduced.

"He's dying, Dr Watson," she told me. "For the last three days he has been sinking and when Luna returned home on the morning of the second day, she hasn't left his side since. Please, I doubt he will last another day but he would not allow me to fetch a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes looking at me, I could stand no more of it. 'With your leave or without it, Mr Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very hour' said I. 'Let it be my brother then. Sherlock trusts John' Luna said. I wouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you may not see him alive. That poor girl. She refuses to part with him for a moment."

I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say that I rushed for my coat and hat. As we drove back, I asked her for the details.

"There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working on a case down at Rotherhithe with Luna, in an alley near the river, and he brought his illness back with him. He sent her away on an errand on Tuesday evening and took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon and hasn't moved an inch since. She returned early Thursday morning, saw him laid there and has been sat beside him. For these three days, neither food nor drink had passed his lips, two days for her."

"Good god! Why did you or Luna not call a doctor?"

"He wouldn't have it sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn't dare disobey him and, you know your sister better than most. If he doesn't want to see a doctor, she won't go against him unless it's necessary to do so. But, he's not long for this world. You'll see for yourself the moment you set eyes on him."

He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the best which sent a chill to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush upon each cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon the coverlet and my sisters head twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and spasmodic. However, my sister wasn't much better. Her rosy lips were cracked from thirst, her skin pale from worry and deep black circles hung around her eyes from sleepless nights yet she still sat beside his bed, his hand on her head as he usually did.

He lay listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes.

"Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," he said in a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.

"My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him.

"Stand back! Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousness which I had only associated with moments of complete crisis. "If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house."

"But why?"

"Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?" Yes, Mrs Hudson was correct. He was more masterful than ever. It was pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion though one thought struck me.

"Then why are you allowing my sister to sit beside you, risking her to infection?" Instantly, his hand lifted and moved to her forehead, as though checking for a fever with made my lips twitch slightly. Even in his illness, he cared for her health.

"I will not allow him to move me John though, I am not allowed to turn my head as to risk breathing in the disease so there is no need to worry." She drawled, no feeling in her voice, yawning at the end of her sentence as fatigue caught up with her.

"I only wished to help," I explained to them both.

"Exactly! You will help me best by doing what you are told."

"Certainly, Holmes." That seemed to relax the austerity of his manner.

"You are not angry?" he asked me, gasping to catch his breath. The poor devil. How could I possibly be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight before my very eyes?

"It's for you own sake, Watson," he croaked.

"For MY sake?"

"I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from Sumatra—a thing that the Dutch know more than we, though they have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is infallibly dead, and it is horribly contagious." He spoke now with a feverish energy, his long hands twitching and jerking as he motioned me away.

"Contagious… by touch, Watson. That's it, by touch. Keep your distance and all is well… And take your sister away as well. We can't risk Luna getting infected by the same disease which has taken me." He told me, removing his hand from her as though it had burned him.

"Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of some stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to such old a friend?" I advanced towards him but he repulsed me with the look of furious anger which showed through the fogginess of the fever.

"If you will stand there, I will talk. If you not, you must leave the room. Now, take this woman away from me before she risks infection." He told me, gesturing to the shocked looking Luna beside him. The coldness in his voice was awful to listen to but hard to disobey. Leaning down, I took hold of her carefully then pulled her away but, as could be expected, she struggled against my hold.

"John! Let me go!"

"It's infectious Luna!" Sherlock yelled, his voice sharp and eyes narrowed. The way he spoke to her, calling her by her own name. The seriousness of his infection hit me like a carriage. This also seemed to hit her as her struggling weakened considerably though I did not know if it was from exhaustion or because of his deliriousness. The moment later, she turned and buried her head into my chest, quiet sobs escaping her mouth.

I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood them. But, now all of my professional instincts, and brotherly instincts, had been aroused. My sister was worried about him. I was worried about him. Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his when he was in a sick room.

"Holmes," said I, "you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them." He looked at me through narrowed and venomous eyes, a look I had never received.

"If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence," said he. Against me, I could feel my sister's body trembling increase, her sobs worsening.

"Then you have none in me?"

"In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and, after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no other option." It was safe to say that I was bitterly hurt by what he had said.

"Such a remark is unworthy of you, Sherlock." She mumbled against me, pulling away from me to look at him. Even I could see the faint look of worry in his eyes that only seemed to echo the intense worry in hers.

"It shows me very clearly the state of your own nerves. But, if you have no confidence in me, I would not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher, or any of the best men in London. But someone you MUST have, and that is final. It you think that I am going to stand here and watch you die without either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help you, then you have mistaken your man." I told him.

"You mean well, Watson," said the sick man with something between a sob and a groan. "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you know, pray tell, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of black Formosa corruption?" looking down, I hated to admit that I had knowledge of neither of those.

"I have never heard of either."

"There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological possibilities, in the East, Watson." He paused after each sentence to collect his failing strength. "I have learned so much during some recent researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the course of them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing."

"Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr Ainstree, the greatest living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All remonstrance is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch him." I turned resolutely to the door, Luna by my side.

Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring, the dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key. The next moment, he had begun to stagger back to his bed, Luna slipping beneath one of his arms to steady the exhausted and panting man after his one tremendous out flame of energy. Despite his words before, he leaned heavily onto her though she didn't seem to mind. From where I stood, they both helped each other.

"You won't take the key from me by force, Watson, I've got you my friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I say otherwise. But, I will humour you." (All this in little gasps, with terrible struggles for breath between.) "You've only my own good at heart. Of course, I know that very well. You shall have your way, but give me time to get my strength. Not now, Watson, not now. It's four 'o' clock. At six, you may go." He told me, getting settled back into bed though Luna curled up on the end like a cat would do, her head resting on his knee beneath the covers. It seemed as though she didn't care about catching the illness that plagued him, something that frightened me as a brother but something I could understand as a married man.

"This is insanity, Holmes." However, though I understood it, I wasn't exactly happy about it.

"It's only two hours, Watson. I promise that you will go at six. Are you content to wait?"

"I seem to have no choice."

"None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging the clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there is one other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not from the man you mention, but from the one that I choose."

"By all means."

"The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you entered this room, Watson. You will find some books other there. I am somewhat exhausted, as is your sister; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity into a non-conductor? At six Watson, we shall resume out conversation."

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_**Please Review x x **_

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	8. The Dying Detective Chapter Two

_**So, here's the second chapter of ' The Dying Detective', hope you like it!**_

_I'd love to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi ( I'm glad that you like the idea of a sequel honey x x) and Guest (Thank you!)_

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But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by his spring to the door. I stood for some minutes, looking at the silent figures in his bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes and he appeared to be asleep while my sister curled by his legs, clutching one of his robes tightly to her frame while she slumbered though even I could tell that it was light. Then, unable to settle down to reading, I walked slowly around the room, examining the pictures of celebrated criminals with which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless perambulation, I came to the mantle. A litter of pipes, tobacco pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver cartridges, and other debris scattered all over it. In the midst of these was a small black and white ivory box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing, and I had stretched out my hand to examine the object more closely, when -

It was a truly dreadful cry that he gave – a yell which could have been heard down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at that horrible scream. As I turned, I managed to catch a glimpse of a convulsed face and frantic eyes. I stood there, paralyzed, with the little box in my hand.

"Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson—this instant, I say!" His head sank back upon the pillow as he gave a deep sigh of relief when I replaced the box back onto the mantelpiece. Luna, upon hearing the horrid cry, jumped from her place and quickly began touching his face. They went from his forehead, to his cheek and then his neck, as though to check how he was but it seemed to calm him as well. "I hate to have my things touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond endurance. You, a doctor- you are enough to drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down man and allow me to have my rest!"

After saying this, he turned to face my obviously distressed sister whose eyes refused to stop darting all over his face, as though checking him constantly. As if wanting to calm her down, he lifted a trembling hand to her cheek, his thumb gently caressing the skin for a moment. It seemed as though he didn't care about her health anymore though she didn't seem to before. Then, for the third time that morning, he shocked me once more by pulling her on top of him. Her head rested lightly against his chest, the thin blanket separating them. His arms wrapped around her waist and, despite the discomfort I felt at him having his hands all over my baby sister, I couldn't help but notice the way they clung to each other.

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The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon his mind. The violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech, so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep the disorganization of his mind ran. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is the most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the stipulated time had passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I, Luna sleeping peacefully on his chest, for it was hardly six before he began to talk with the same feverish animation as before.

"Now, Watson," he said. "Have you any change in your pocket?"

"Yes."

"Any silver?"

"A good deal."

"How many half-crowns?"

"I have five."

"Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However, such as they are you can put them in your watch pocket. And all the rest of your money should go in your left trouser pocket. Thank you. It will balance you out so much better like that." That was just raving insanity. He shuddered, and again he made a sound between a cough and a sob.

"You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful that not for one instant shall it be more than half on. I implore you to be careful, Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not draw the blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters and papers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There is a sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise that small ivory box with its assistance. Place it here among the papers. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street."

To tell you the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened, for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous to leave him. However, he was eager now to consult the person named as he had been obstinate in refusing.

"I never heard the name," said I.

"Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the man upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical man, but a planter. Mr Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon his plantation, which was distant from medical aid, caused him to study it himself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very methodical person, and I did not desire you to start before six, because I was well aware that you would not find him in his study. If you could persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of his unique experience of this disease, the investigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he could help me."

I gave Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt to indicate how they were interrupted by him gasping for breath and clutching of his hands which indicated the pain from which he was suffering. His appearance had changed for the worse during the few hours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were more pronounced, the eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered upon his brow. He still retained, however, the jaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he would always be the master.

"You will tell him exactly how you have left me," said he. "You will convey the very impression which is in your own mind-a dying man-a dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot think why the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures seem. Ah, I am wandering! Strange how the brain controls the brain! What was I saying, Watson?"

"My directions for Mr Culverton Smith."

"Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him, Watson. There is no good feeling between us. His nephew, Watson-I had suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it. The boy died horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me-only he!"

"I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it."

"You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to come with him. Don't forget, Watson. You won't fail me. You never did fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You'll convey all that is in your mind."

I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babbling like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happy thought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me as I passed from the flat I heard Holmes's high, thin voice in some delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on me through the fog.

"How is Mr Holmes, sir?" he asked. It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressed in unofficial tweeds.

"He is very ill," I answered.

He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed exultation in his face.

"I heard some rumour of it," said he. A moment later, the cab had arrived and I left him.

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_**Love you all. **_

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	9. The Dying Detective Chapter Three

_**So, here's the third chapter of ' The Dying Detective', hope you like it!**_

_I'd love to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi ( I know how you feel about the oysters. I was giggling while writing it 'cos it's amazing… and the money thing. When I first read it, I was like "Intelligence and insanity are so close… Sherlock is officially an insane maniac!" )_

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Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive folding-door, and its shining brass work. All was in keeping with a solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance of a tinted electrical light behind him.

"Yes, Mr Culverton Smith is in. Dr Watson! Very good, sir, I will take up your card."

My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating voice.

"Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"

There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.

"Well, I won't see him, Staples. I can't have my work interrupted like this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning if he really must see me."

Again the gentle murmur.

"Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning, or he can stay away. My work must not be hindered."

I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was not a time to stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Before the apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past him and was in the room.

With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing grey eyes which glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink curve. The skull was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my amazement that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his childhood.

"What's this?" he cried in a high, screaming voice. "What is the meaning of this intrusion? Didn't I send you word that I would see you to-morrow morning?"

"I am sorry," said I, "but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr Sherlock Holmes-"

The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon the little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. His features became tense and alert.

"Have you come from Holmes?" he asked.

"I have just left him."

"What about Holmes? How is he?"

"He is desperately ill. That is why I have come."

The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I could have sworn that it was set in a malicious and abominable smile. Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been some nervous contraction which I had surprised, for he turned to me an instant later with genuine concern upon his features.

"I am sorry to hear this," said he. "I only know Mr Holmes through some business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect for his talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of disease. For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my prisons," he continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side table. "Among those gelatine cultivations some of the very worst offenders in the world are now doing time."

"It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr Holmes desired to see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were the one man in London who could help him."

The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.

"Why?" he asked. "Why should Mr Homes think that I could help him in his trouble?"

"Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases."

"But why should he think that this disease which he has contracted is Eastern?"

"Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among Chinese sailors down in the docks."

Mr Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.

"Oh, that's it-is it?" said he. "I trust the matter is not so grave as you suppose. How long has he been ill?"

"About three days."

"Is he delirious?"

"Occasionally."

"Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his call. I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr Watson, but this case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once." I remembered Holmes's injunction.

"I have another appointment," said I.

"Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr Holmes's address. You can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most."

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_**Hope you like it!**_

_**Please review! X x x **_

_**Love you all. **_

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	10. The Dying Detective Chapter Four

_**So, as the last chapter wasn't very long, I decided to give you the third and fourth chapter today. Aren't you lucky people?**_

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It was with a sinking heart that I re-entered Holmes' bedroom. For all that I knew, the worst might have happened in my absence. To my enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the interval of my absence. My sister, still asleep, was by his side instead of resting on him though he didn't seem to care. His appearance was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left him and he spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual crispness and lucidity.

"Well, did you see him, Watson?"

"Yes; he is coming."

"Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of messengers."

"He wished to return with me."

"That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did he ask what ailed me?"

"I told him about the Chinese in the East End."

"Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend could. You can now disappear from the scene."

"I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes."

"Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson."

"My dear Holmes!"

"I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be done." Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his haggard face though the hurried movement still didn't wake Luna. She simply stirred for a few moments, nuzzled her face into Holmes' side. "There are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And don't budge, whatever happens-whatever happens, do you hear? Don't speak! Don't move! Just listen with all your ears." Then in an instant his sudden access of strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful talk droned away into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-delirious man.

From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing of the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence, broken only by the heavy breaths and gasps of the sick man. I could imagine that our visitor was standing by the bedside and looking down at the sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.

"Holmes!" he cried. "Holmes!" in the insistent tone of one who awakens a sleeper. "Can't you hear me, Holmes?" There was a rustling, as if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.

"Is that you, Mr Smith?" Holmes whispered. "I hardly dared hope that you would come."

The other laughed.

"I should imagine not," he said. "And yet, you see, I am here. Coals of fire, Holmes-coals of fire!"

"It is very good of you-very noble of you. I appreciate your special knowledge."

Our visitor sniggered.

"You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you know what is the matter with you?"

"The same," said Holmes.

"Ah! You recognize the symptoms?"

"Only too well."

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't be surprised if it WERE the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day-a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London-a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect. However, you don't seem to care for the young woman. Now her, I remember." The blood froze in my veins at the familiarity in his voice when speaking about my sister.

"Leave her out of this but I knew that you did it."

"Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn't prove it, anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a game is that-eh?"

I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. "Give me the water!" he gasped.

"You're precious near your end, my friend, but I don't want you to go till I have had a word with you. That's why I give you water. There, don't slop it about! That's right. Can you understand what I say?"

Holmes groaned.

"Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones," he whispered. "I'll put the words out of my head-I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll forget it."

"Forget what?"

"Well, about Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I'll forget it."

"You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don't see you in the witness box. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It's not him we are talking about. It's you."

"Yes, yes."

"The fellow who came for me-I've forgotten his name-said that you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors."

"I could only account for it so."

"You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself smart, don't you? You came across someone who was smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have got this thing?"

"I can't think. My mind is gone. For heaven's sake help me!"

"Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."

"Give me something to ease my pain."

"Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy."

"Yes, yes; it is cramp."

"Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?"

"No, no; nothing."

"Think again."

"I'm too ill to think."

"Well, then, I'll help you. Did anything come by post?"

"By post?"

"A box by chance?"

"I'm fainting-I'm gone!"

"Listen, Holmes!" There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying man, and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place. "You must hear me. You SHALL hear me. Do you remember a box-an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it-do you remember?"

"Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke-"

"It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone I would not have hurt you."

"I remember," Holmes gasped. "The spring! It drew blood. This box-this on the table."

"The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you die."

Holmes's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

"What is that?" said Smith. "Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better." He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. "Is there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?"

"Do you have to y-yell? Some people are trying to sleep" Luna murmured softly, followed by the sound of the bed creaking slightly as she got up.

"A match and a cigarette."

* * *

_**Hope you like it!**_

_**Please review! X x x **_

_**Love you all. **_

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	11. The Dying Detective Chapter Five

_**So, here's the fifth and last chapter of ' The Dying Detective', hope you like it!**_

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_I'd love to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi (Though it isn't written, I will tell you that… basically… When Sherlock was yelling at him through the window of the TV series, he opened the door and she threatened him with her blade.) jojo (Thankin you my dear… I thought I would take a little bit of Jude Law and stole his weapon.) and lastly Guest (I'm going to try and update this story every day… will that be quick enough for you? ;) )_

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I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in his natural voice-a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in silent amazement looking down at his companion.

"What's the meaning of this?" I heard him say at last in a dry, rasping tone.

"The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," said Holmes. "I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water. But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here ARE some cigarettes." I heard the striking of a match. "That is very much better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?"

There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton appeared.

"All is in order and this is your man," said Holmes.

The officer gave the usual cautions.

"I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage," he concluded.

"And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes," remarked my friend with a chuckle. "To save an invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove. Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down here. It may play its part in the trial."

There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron and a cry of pain.

"You'll only get yourself hurt," said the inspector. "Stand still, will you?" There was the click of the closing handcuffs.

"A nice trap!" cried the high, snarling voice. "It will bring YOU into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I was sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said anything which he may invent which will corroborate his insane suspicions. You can lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours."

"Good heavens!" cried Holmes. "I had totally forgotten him. My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have overlooked you! I need not introduce you to Mr Culverton Smith, since I understand that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have you the cab below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of some use at the station."

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"I never needed it more," said Holmes as he refreshed himself with a glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet. "However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means less to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should impress Mrs. Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was to convey it to you, and you in turn to him. You won't be offended, Watson? You will realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place, and that if you had shared my secret you would never have been able to impress Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point of the whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly certain that he would come to look upon his handiwork."

"But your appearance, Holmes-your ghastly face?"

"Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson. For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure. With Vaseline upon one's forehead, belladonna in one's eyes, rouge over the cheek-bones, and crusts of beeswax round one's lips, a very satisfying effect can be produced. Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. A little occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters, or any other extraneous subject produces a pleasing effect of delirium."

"But why would you not let me near you, since there was in truth no infection?"

"Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I have no respect for your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or temperature? At four yards, I could deceive you. If I failed to do so, who would bring my Smith within my grasp?"

"And my sister?"

"Blinded by exhaustion and grief. She would not believe anything contrary to what information she was given. No, Watson, I would not touch that box. You can just see if you look at it sideways where the sharp spring like a viper's tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say it was by some such device that poor Savage, who stood between this monster and a reversion, was done to death." I had to admit, it did make sense though from the corner of my eye, I could see my sister growing angrier and more upset as every second passed us by.

"My correspondence, however, is, as you know, a varied one, and I am somewhat upon my guard against any packages which reach me. It was clear to me, however, that by pretending that he had really succeeded in his design I might surprise a confession. That pretence I have carried out with the thoroughness of the true artist. Thank you, Watson, you must help me on with my coat. When we have finished at the police-station I think that something nutritious from Mrs Hudson would not go amiss."

"You lied… to all of us? I sat by your bed side for two days, thinking that you were going to die and you were lying! The whole time!" Luna shrieked, glaring at Sherlock who had the decency to look a little bit ashamed of what he had done. Tears were building up in her eyes, a few rolling down her pale cheeks though her complexion wasn't as bad as before, vastly improved by the little sleep she got by his side.

"It was to catch the murderer pet. Surely, you could see that; I knew you were not sleep when he confessed. Your breathing rhythm altered slightly."

"I don't care if it was to catch a murderer! You could have told me! Instead, you let me believe that the man I love is slowly dying in front of my eyes! I felt helpless Holmes, and you know how much I dislike the feeling of helplessness! Draw a confession from him some other way but never like that!" she cried loudly, her hands trembling at her sides as small sobs came from her mouth. The detective by my side sighed quietly and took three steps forward in order to rest a hand on her cheek but she shoved his arm away.

"No. Don't you dare think that touches and soft words will make me forgive you! I-I-I HATE you at this moment Holmes!" With that said, she turned on her heel and moved towards the door but before she could touch the handle, he leapt forward and took hold of her hand, pulling her back. However, I couldn't help but keep an eye on his arms as they wrapped around her waist.

"I am sorry. It was foolish of me to keep you in the dark. I should not have done such a thing. Please," he said, an almost uncertain look in his eyes. Part of me was extremely happy that he was admitting to feeling something for her, to her face. However, another part rebelled against it, saying that I didn't wish for them to get involved, despite my happiness. His life was dangerous to not only himself but her as well. Simply looking back at the case was enough to prove it. He fasted for three days, causing my sister to do the same for two because she didn't want to leave him. That was dedication, a dedication that could prove to be deadly someday.

"I refuse to listen to you this time. Go see Mrs Hudson then go to Scotland Yard and see this case to the end. Despite how I feel at this moment, I will make sure there is something hot on the table for when you return."

"You must come also dear. This case belongs to you as much as it does to me."

"Please Holmes, understand why I will not be joining you and go. You know how incapable the police can be at times of importance. Without you standing watch, a curious man might very well end up a dead man."

"I am not going to leave until I have made amends with you, my darling."

"Then they shall not see you for hours because I am not going to forgive you so easily this time-"My sister's speech was cut off by our friend pressing his lips very carefully against hers. From where I stood, I could see no other movement except their eyes fluttering shut. I didn't agree with that method of forgiveness, nor did I fully agree with him kissing my little sister in such a way but I could not help the smile which made its way onto my face. His life, though interesting, may be dangerous but if there was one man whom I trusted to look after her, it was him.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's finest and only consultant detective, was more than capable of protecting her against the horrors of London. If not, I would be there with my handy service revolver.

After a few more seconds, he pulled away with a small smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. As for my sister, she seemed to be frozen, her eyes closed and mouth open slightly before she spoke, allowing a deep breath to escape her first.

"I-I-I don't know what t-to say."

"Open your eyes and tell me exactly how you feel." He whispered, one of his hands moving to cup her cheek. She did as asked, looking straight at him and locking their gazes.

"I love you Mr Holmes and… I'm scared because if you trick me like this again, I will not hesitate to strangle you to death with my bare hands." She muttered though he didn't seem bothered by anything she said. He simply leant forward, pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Darling, you know that I do not like it when you're angry with me. The feeling is most…"

"Irksome?" I suggested, crossing my arms over my chest. Turning to face me briefly, he inclined his head in my direction in thanks.

"The feeling of me being angry with you, is the same as going without tobacco for three days? Gee, thank you Sherlock. I feel very valued."

"It is simply because I am addicted pet, to both my smoking tobacco and you." The moment he said that, she threw her arms around his neck, drawing him into a slightly longer kiss which my friend fully returned.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes has officially got a heart… though it was a present from someone I know very well.

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_**Hope you like it!**_

_**Please review! X x x **_

_**Love you all. **_

_**So, Do you like it? Do you hate it? Do you want faster updates? Do you want me to just delete the story and crawl back into my hole? Tell me by dropping a review in the little box down there**_

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	12. Protective Instincts Flare On Sight

_**So, here's a little bridge between 'The Dying Detective' and 'The Golden Pince-nez'.**_

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_I'd love to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi (Honey, I hope you enjoy this chapter, if you're seeking shock and John feeling a little bit protective though it was supposed to stand on it's own but luckily, I could easily change it to fit this story.) Guest (I'm updating as fast as I possibly can but 1 chapter per day will have to do… I have a novel in the works as well. )Jessieanne412 (Thank you darling! I'm glad that someone is enjoying this.) _

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I had noticed that after the case, where my best friend had had us all convinced that he was to be at death's door, he kept an almost constant eye on my little sister. No matter what he was in the middle of doing, his eyes would momentarily flash from the task at hand to her who would not be that far away from where he sat. At meal times, when I was extended the offer to attend, he would sit between the pair of us, making sure that she ate everything he had piled onto her plate at the start, despite the fact that the portions were almost triple the size of what anyone could eat in a single sitting.

What shocked me, however, was how I didn't notice the comfortable intimacy they had with each other.

You see, I had visited 221b on a dismal Friday evening, deciding that it would be best to visit Sherlock and my sister on my way home from my practise, as well as the next morning. Since the case, I had made it my unpaid duty to check up on them at least once every two days, whether it be for five minutes or five hours. Of course, after explaining everything to Mary, she had agreed as not to allow Sherlock to 'infect' my sister.

Nothing had really struck me as unusual however. When I arrived there, Mrs Hudson greeted me then sent me up with a small word of warning, informing me that they had worked for two days without rest on a particularly difficult cold case so it was possible that their tempers were rather… explosive or they would be resting. As a doctor, I knew that I shouldn't really wake them so as I climbed the stairs, I intended on staying for a few minutes to observe each of them in turn then I would leave a note on the desk or on the mantle beneath one of the detective's pipes so he would see it almost instantly when he went for a smoke. When I finally got to the room, I carefully pushed the door open as not to make a noise, only to stop in my tracks.

Resting, right beside the roaring fireplace, was my sister and friend.

Sherlock was laid back in his chair, his chin resting on one hand while the other held open a tattered old book that I couldn't recognise. On the floor sat my sister, her head resting on his knee with one arm wrapped tightly around his leg, as though he might disappear. Clutched to her frame, she held one of his long dressing gowns which seemed to bury her. Despite my original shock, I found it rather endearing. No doubt, they had tried to fight fatigue off until exhaustion became too much to bare. If anything, the position screamed that was the case as, if one of them was in any sort of state to move, they would have both been tucked up in their beds instead of sleeping in the sitting room.

Just as I was about to enter, Holmes woke with a small jolt, his eyes darting around for a moment of panic until they rested on my sister. A small smile tugged as his lips as he placed the book down, his hand moving to comb gently through her hair. The action alone caused my sister to stir, her eyes fluttering open and looking at him. Their state of mind was obvious as usually, they would have spotted me through the small crack in the door but they simply carried on, oblivious. One part of my mind told me to leave them be and return the next morning but the other part told me that I would never get an opportunity like that again.

"Come on pet, I think it's time for us to retire for the night." He murmured softly but she just looked up at him, her eyes half closed.

"B-But we haven't s-solved it." She slurred, stumbling over her words in a similar way to that of a drunk as she slowly rose to her feet. A moment later, Sherlock was also standing.

"It will be there tomorrow darling, I can assure you. Besides, you are of no use to me when you can't concentrate on the matter at hand because you're falling asleep."

"But I'm not tired." She whined.

"Of course you are. Now come along or I will be forced to make you go to bed."

"I'm sorry to say that you can do a lot of things Sherlock but making me do something I don't want to do isn't one of them." Now, if I could hear the slight tone of challenge in her voice from where I stood, I was almost certain that Holmes had as he moved closer to her, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder.

"Come along dear." Unlike before, his voice held a stronger tone, offering her no room to debate but I had a feeling that exhaustion had altered their temperaments as Luna glared at him.

"I refuse to retire until this case is solved sir. You know how to feels to have a brain rot in stagnation so allow me a problem to solve and I shall rest a happy woman but until that moment, I will exercise my mind as you usually encourage." She snapped. At her tone alone, I winced but the detective only stared at her with a calculating gaze.

"I understand darling but you will only drive yourself to further distress without sleep when you can't solve it. Give your mind an evening off and the answer will come flooding." He explained calmly though even I could see that he was trying to mind his temper with her. The only thing with the pair of them is that neither would back down from the other, despite how angry they got.

"Sherlock, stop treating me like a child! I know what's best for me!"

"I'll stop treating you like one when you begin acting like an adult. Until that happens, I will have to act like the adult."

"You are not my father! You are not my brother! And you are not my husband which means that you have no control over me!" she cried, her glare intensifying. I could tell that the mention of my father got her worked up but only because of the shaking hands by her side. Factoring those out, she seemed perfectly angry. However, Holmes remained calm in the face of her anger.

"I may not be your father and I am definitely not your brother but as I c-care deeply for you a-and your w-wellbeing and provide for y-you… I practically fulfil the role as husband. Now, come to bed sweetheart." With a sigh, she nodded and slowly walked towards her bedroom door but before she entered, she turned and pressed a kiss to his cheek then hugged him tightly.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

"Goodnight darling."

"Sweet dreams."

"Let's hope not pet, they're extraordinarily dull but sweet dreams to you." Smiling, she moved away and was about to turn into the room but he grabbed her arm, turning her then pressed their mouths together. Though I felt like I was intruding, I couldn't help the shock that rose in me when they didn't pull away for what felt like minutes. While seconds ticked by, my hands clenched into tight fists by my side while I glared at Sherlock's head. I was so close to rushing in there and then throttling him around the head for daring to be so bold with my younger sister.

"Goodnight my dear." He whispered, their lips brushing against each other from the closeness between them. I could see her shiver slightly, her arms moving to hold the thick black dressing gown tighter to her body as she leaned back against the door.

"If we keep doing this Sherlock, we will never get to bed." Luna murmured softly, her teeth beginning to chatter lightly as the fire dwindled down, taking its warmth with it.

"Then maybe you should stay in my room."

"Sherlock! What would my brother say?" Yes, what would I say? Well, NO would be in the top 10 words, with me cursing him for even _thinking _about inviting my sister to his bed when they weren't even married!

"It's a logical decision as my body heat will warm you up and keep you warm. Also, if you look at the facts, you slept more soundly and deeply when sharing a bed with me. With all of this evidence, how could he possible deny that you're better off with me?" he asked, his hands reaching for hers then leading her towards his door. With a smile, she followed him into the bedroom.

All I did was stare through the small crack.

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_**Hope you like it!**_

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	13. The Golden Pince Nez Chapter One

_**So, here's the first chapter to 'The Golden Pince-Nez'. Hope you like it.**_

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to romana45 (Thank you darling!)_

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When I look at the three massive manuscript volumes which contain our work for the year of 1894 I confess that it is very difficult for me, out of such a wealth of material, to select the cases which are most interesting in themselves and at the same time most conducive to a display of those peculiar powers for which my friend was famous. As I turn over the pages, I see my notes upon the repulsive story of the red leech and the terrible death of Crosby the banker. Here also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow. The famous Smith-Mortimer succession case comes also within this period, and so does the tracking and arrest of Huret, the Boulevard assassin - an exploit which won for Holmes an autograph letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the Legion of Honour. Each of these would furnish a narrative, but on the whole I am of opinion that none of them unite so many singular points of interest as the episode of Yoxley Old Place, which includes not only the lamentable death of young Willoughby Smith, but also those subsequent developments which threw so curious a light upon the causes of the crime.

It was a wild, tempestuous night towards the close of November. Holmes, Luna and I sat together in silence all the evening, he engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest, my sister flicking through some incredibly large volume of poetry and I deep in a recent treatise upon surgery. Outside the wind howled down Baker Street, while the rain beat fiercely against the windows. It was strange there in the very depths of the town, with ten miles of man's handiwork on every side of us, to feel the iron grip of nature, and to be conscious that to the huge elements forced all London was no more than the molehills that dot the fields. I walked to the window and looked out on the deserted street. The occasional lamps gleamed on the expanse of muddy road and shining pavement. A single cab was splashing its way from the Oxford Street end.

"Well, Watson, my dear, it's as well we have not to turn out tonight," Holmes said, laying aside his lens and rolling up the palimpsest. "I've gone enough for one sitting. It is trying work for the eyes. So far, I can make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey's accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth century. Halloa! Halloa! What' this?"

Amid the droning of the wind there had come the stamping of a horse's hoofs and the long grind of a wheel as it rasped against the kerb. The cab which I had seen had pulled up at our front door.

"What can he want?" I ejaculated, as a man stepped out of it.

"Want? He wants us. And we, my poor Watson, want overcoats and cravats and galoshes, and every aid that man has ever invented to fight against the weather. As for our darling, she shall need most of the same, forgoing the cravat. Wait a bit, though! There's the cab off again! There's hope yet. He'd have kept it if he had wanted us to come. Run down, my dear fellow, and open the door, for all virtuous folk have been long in bed."

When the light of the hall lamp fell upon our midnight visitor I had no difficulty in recognising him. It was young Stanley Hopkins, a promising detective, in whose career Holmes had several times show a very practical interest.

"Is he in?" he asked, eagerly.

"Come up, my dear sir," said Holmes's voice from above. "I hope you have no designs upon us on such a night as this."

The detective mounted the stairs, and our lamp gleamed upon his shining waterproof. I helped him out of it while Holmes knocked a blaze out of the logs in the grate.

"Come on in, dear Hopkins, draw up by the fire and warm your toes," Luna said, standing from her seat before taking him one of Holmes' cigars. "Here's a cigar and my brother has a prescription containing hot water and a lemon which is good medicine on a night like this. Sit there while I go and make you a glass." Flashing him a smile and throwing a wink, she left the room though I noticed how my friend's eyes narrowed at the young man.

"It must be something important which has brought you out in such a gale."

"It is indeed, Mr Holmes. I've had a bustling afternoon, I promise you. Did you see anything of the Yoxley case in the latest editions?"

"I've seen nothing later than the fifteenth century to-day."

"Well, it was only a paragraph, and all wrong at that, so you have not missed anything. I haven't let the grass grow under my feet. It's down in Kent, seven miles from Chatham and three from the railway line. I was wired for at three-fifteen, reached Yoxley Old Place at five, conducted my investigation, was back at Charing Cross by the last train, and straight to you by cab."

"Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case?"

"It means that I can make neither head nor tail of it. So far as I can see it is just as tangled a business as ever I handled, and yet at first it seemed so simple that one couldn't go wrong. There's no motive, Mr Holmes. That's what bothers me - I can't put my hand on a motive. Here's a man dead - there's no denying that - but, so far as I can see, no reason on earth why anyone should wish him harm." Holmes reclined back in his seat, lighting the cigar that was resting between his lips but before he could get a word out, my sister returned with a glass filled with a cloudy liquid, a single slice of lemon floating on the top.

"Don't worry darling, it's a little warm but that's exactly what you need and I even dropped in a sugar cube to sweeten the deal." She handed him the glass though from where I was, I could see his eyes fixed intently on her. The moment she got close enough to Sherlock however, the faster he was at proving whom she belonged to as he yanked her into his lap, causing her to squeal loudly at the sudden movement.

"Let us hear about it," he said, his voice and tone very casual, despite the fact that my sister was squirming in his lap, giggling softly before finally settling down.

"I've got my facts pretty clear," said Stanley Hopkins, his face slightly downcast as he glanced towards the couple. "All I want now is to know what they all mean. The story, so far as I can make it out, is like this. Some years ago this country house, Yoxley Old Place, was taken by an elderly man, who gave the name of Professor Coram. He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton." He explained, stopping to take a sip of the drink in his hand though it was obvious that the sugar cube did nothing to dispel the bitter taste and sharpness of the lemons that went into it.

"And how long have they both known him?" Luna asked, curiosity shining her eyes with an intensity that told everyone in the room that if Holmes was not going to investigate, she would which wasn't really uncommon. However, she usually solves missing persons or any other case that Sherlock doesn't find worthy of his time and effort.

"These have both been with him since his arrival, and they seem to be women of excellent character. The Professor is writing a learned book, and he found it necessary about a year ago to engage a secretary. The first two that he tried were not successes; but the third, Mr Willoughby Smith, a very young man straight from the University, seems to have been just what his employer wanted. His work consisted in writing all the morning to the Professor's dictation, and he usually spent the evening in hunting up references and passages which bore upon the next day's work. This Willoughby Smith has nothing against him either as a boy at Uppingham or as a young man at Cambridge. I have seen his testimonials, and from the first he was a decent, quiet, hardworking fellow, with no weak spot in him at all. And yet this is the lad who has met his death this morning in the Professor's study under circumstances which can point only to murder."

The wind howled and screamed at the windows. Holmes, my sister and I, all drew closer to the fire while the young inspector slowly and point by point developed his singular narrative.

"If you were to search all England," said he, "I don't suppose you could find a household more self-contained or free from outside influences. Whole weeks would pass and not one of them go past the garden gate. The Professor was buried in his work and existed for nothing else. Young Smith knew nobody in the neighbourhood, and lived very much as his employer did. The two women had nothing to take them from the house. Mortimer the gardener, who wheels the bath-chair, is an Army pensioner - an old Crimean man of excellent character. He does not live in the house, but in a three-roomed cottage at the other end of the garden. Those are the only people that you would find within the grounds of Yoxley Old Place. At the same time, the gate of the garden is a hundred yards from the main London to Chatham road. It opens with a latch, and there is nothing to prevent anyone from walking in."

"Have you got any evidence that could help us further?" Sherlock asked, the glint in his eye matching that of Luna's.

"Now I will give you the evidence of Susan Tarlton, who is the only person who can say anything positive about the matter. It was in the forenoon, between eleven and twelve. She was engaged at the moment in hanging some curtains in the upstairs front bedroom. Professor Coram was still in bed, for when the weather is bad he seldom rises before midday. The housekeeper was busied with some work in the back of the house. Willoughby Smith had been in his bedroom, which he uses as a sitting-room; but the maid heard him at that moment pass along the passage and descend to the study immediately below her. She did not see him, but she says that she could not be mistaken in his quick, firm tread. She did not hear the study door close, but a minute or so later there was a dreadful cry in the room below."

"And did this scream belong to man or woman Hopkins?" Luna asked, seeming to get up of Holmes' lap but he wouldn't allow her to do such a thing so he pulled her back, one arm anchoring her down. If I didn't know him any better, I would have said that he was jealous of the attention she was receiving from the young police officer but she didn't seem to notice. Instead, she simply sat there, a smile on her face, probably because of the affection Holmes was showing her; it didn't happen that often, despite the fact that they both knew how they felt of each other.

"It was a wild, hoarse scream, so strange and unnatural that it might have come either from a man or a woman. At the same instant there was a heavy thud, which shook the old house, and then all was silence. The maid stood petrified for a moment, and then, recovering her courage, she ran downstairs. The study door was shut, and she opened it. Inside young Mr Willoughby Smith was stretched upon the floor. At first she could see no injury, but as she tried to raise him she saw that blood was pouring from the underside of his neck. It was pierced by a very small but very deep wound, which had divided the carotid artery. The instrument with which the injury had been inflicted lay upon the carpet beside him. It was one of those small sealing-wax knives to be found on old-fashioned writing-tables, with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. It was part of the fittings of the Professor's own first the maid thought that young Smith was already dead, but on pouring some water from the carafe over his forehead he opened his eyes for an instant. `The Professor,' he murmured - `it was she.' The maid is prepared to swear that those were the exact words. He tried desperately to say something else, and he held his right hand up in the air. Then he fell back dead."

"In the meantime the housekeeper had also arrived upon the scene, but she was just too late to catch the young man's dying words. Leaving Susan with the body, she hurried to the Professor's room. He was sitting up in bed horribly agitated, for he had heard enough to convince him that something terrible had occurred. Mrs Marker is prepared to swear that the Professor was still in his night-clothes, and, indeed, it was impossible for him to dress without the help of Mortimer, whose orders were to come at twelve o'clock. The Professor declares that he heard the distant cry, but that he knows nothing more. He can give no explanation of the young man's last words, `The Professor - it was she,' but imagines that they were the outcome of delirium. He believes that Willoughby Smith had not an enemy in the world, and can give no reason for the crime. His first action was to send Mortimer the gardener for the local police. A little later the chief constable sent for me. Nothing was moved before I got there, and strict orders were given that no one should walk upon the paths leading to the house. It was a splendid chance of putting your theories into practice, Mr Sherlock Holmes. There was really nothing wanting."

"Except Mr Sherlock Holmes," said my friend, with a somewhat bitter smile twitching his lips. "Well, let us hear about it. What sort of job did you make of it?"

"I must ask you first, Mr Holmes, to glance at this rough plan, which will give you a general idea of the position of the Professor's study and the various points of the case. It will help you in following my investigation."

He unfolded the rough chart, which I here reproduce, and he laid it across Luna's lap. I rose, and, standing behind Holmes, I studied it over his shoulder.

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_**Hope you like it!**_

_**Please review! X x x **_

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	14. The Golden Pince Nez Chapter Two

_**So, here's the second chapter to 'The Golden Pince-Nez'. Hope you like it.**_

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_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi (It's okay honey and thank you! ) Guest ( I'm glad darlin', you deserve it! X x and Thank you for thinking it's a great story!) and TheGoldenHairMockingjay (Thank you!)_

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It showed the professor's study, the basic furniture and the position of smith's body. From this, it showed two corridors coming from the room. One of which went straight to the Professor's bedroom and the other went straight to the backdoor. On the whole map, only one window was marked and that was in the study.

"It is very rough, of course, and it only deals with the points which seem to me to be essential. All the rest you will see later for yourself. Now, first of all, presuming that the assassin entered the house, how did he or she come in? Undoubtedly by the garden path and the back door, from which there is direct access to the study. Any other way would have been exceedingly complicated. The escape must have also been made along that line, for of the two other exits from the room one was blocked by Susan as she ran downstairs and the other leads straight to the Professor's bedroom. I therefore directed my attention at once to the garden path, which was saturated with recent rain and would certainly show any footmarks.

"My examination showed me that I was dealing with a cautious and expert criminal. No footmarks were to be found on the path. There could be no question, however, that someone had passed along the grass border which lines the path, and that he had done so in order to avoid leaving a track. I could not find anything in the nature of a distinct impression, but the grass was trodden down and someone had undoubtedly passed. It could only have been the murderer, since neither the gardener nor anyone else had been there that morning and the rain had only begun during the night."

"One moment," said Holmes. "Where does this path lead to?"

"To the road."

"How long is it?"

"A hundred yards or so."

"At the point where the path passes through the gate you could surely pick up the tracks?"

"Unfortunately, the path was tiled at that point."

"Well, on the road itself?"

"No; it was all trodden into mire."

"Tut-tut! Well, then, these tracks upon the grass, were they coming or going?"

"It was impossible to say. There was never any outline."

"A large foot or a small?"

"You could not distinguish."

Holmes gave an ejaculation of impatience though I had a feeling it was mostly put on. Most of that couldn't be helped but he seemed to enjoy blaming the man for it. In my mind, this was to show Luna that the other man wasn't as capable as him at a crime scene which, in a way, was childish but completely within his somewhat childish mentality.

"It has been pouring rain and blowing a hurricane ever since," said he. "It will be harder to read now than that palimpsest. Well, well, it can't be helped. What did you do, Hopkins, after you had made certain that you had made certain of nothing?"

"I think I made certain of a good deal, Mr Holmes. I knew that someone had entered the house cautiously from without. I next examined the corridor. It is lined with cocoanut matting and had taken no impression of any kind. This brought me into the study itself. It is a scantily-furnished room. The main article is a large writing-table with a fixed bureau. This bureau consists of a double column of drawers with a central small cupboard between them. The drawers were open, the cupboard locked. The drawers, it seems, were always open, and nothing of value was kept in them. There were some papers of importance in the cupboard, but there were no signs that this had been tampered with, and the Professor assures me that nothing was missing. It is certain that no robbery has been committed."

"Sherlock, must you put down everyone around you?"

"Darling, please. I would never put you or Watson down for you both know my methods and can apply them almost as well as I. Is it my fault that they fail when an officer attempts to do the same?" he murmured, resting his head on her shoulder before quickly pecking her cheek. I could see that Hopkins was shocked at the sudden display of affection from the usually emotionless detective.

"No, it isn't but that doesn't mean that you have to mock him for his efforts. At least he has tried and has managed to gather some evidence, despite the weather outside." She explained, turning her head to look at him. Their gazes locked and neither seemed willing to look away first which was understandable. Two head strong people? There would have to be a winner.

"Hopkins, carry on, if you will." I told him. With a nod, he did just that though his eyes kept darting towards the duelling duo.

"I come now to the body of the young man. It was found near the bureau, and just to the left of it, as marked upon that chart. The stab was on the right side of the neck and from behind forwards, so that it is almost impossible that it could have been self-inflicted."

"Unless he fell upon the knife," said Holmes, his eyes still glued to those of my sister.

"Exactly. The idea crossed my mind. But we found the knife some feet away from the body, so that seems impossible. Then, of course, there are the man's own dying words. And, finally, there was this very important piece of evidence which was found clasped in the dead man's right hand." At this, both looked away from the other.

From his pocket Stanley Hopkins drew a small paper packet. He unfolded it and disclosed a golden pince-nez, with two broken ends of black silk cord dangling from the end of it. "Willoughby Smith had excellent sight," he added. "There can be no question that this was snatched from the face or the person of the assassin."

Sherlock Holmes took the glasses into his hand and examined them with the utmost attention and interest. He held them on his nose and endeavoured to read through them. After a couple of moments, he carefully moved Luna from his lap, wrapped an arm around her waist then went to the window and stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp. My sister huffed by his side, wriggling playfully in his grip though it didn't seem she was trying to move away. Finally, with a chuckle, he seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.

"That's the best I can do for you," said he. "It may prove to be of some use."

The astonished detective read the note aloud. It ran as follows:-

"Wanted, a woman of good address, attired like a lady. She has a remarkably thick nose, with eyes which are set close upon either side of it. She has a puckered forehead, a peering expression, and probably rounded shoulders. There are indications that she has had recourse to an optician at least twice during the last few months. As her glasses are of remarkable strength and as opticians are not very numerous, there should be no difficulty in tracing her."

Holmes smiled at the astonishment of Hopkins, which must have been reflected upon my features.

"Surely my deductions are simplicity itself," said he. "It would be difficult to name any articles which afford a finer field for inference than a pair of glasses, especially so remarkable a pair as these. That they belong to a woman I infer from their delicacy, and also, of course, from the last words of the dying man. As to her being a person of refinement and well dressed, they are, as you perceive, handsomely mounted in solid gold, and it is inconceivable that anyone who wore such glasses could be slatternly in other respects. You will find that the clips are too wide for your nose, showing that the lady's nose was very broad at the base. This sort of nose is usually a short and coarse one, but there are a sufficient number of exceptions to prevent me from being dogmatic or from insisting upon this point in my description." Taking hold of them, he carefully placed them against Luna's face though kept the lenses a distance from her eyes, probably so she would not receive a head ache from the unusual strength.

"My own face is a narrow one, and yet I find that I cannot get my eyes into the centre, or near the centre, of these glasses. My darling's face, though a little bit wide than my own, fits into the same category. Therefore the lady's eyes are set very near to the sides of the nose. You will perceive, Watson, that the glasses are concave and of unusual strength. A lady whose vision had been so extremely contracted all her life is sure to have the physical characteristics of such a vision." Taking the glasses away from my sister's face, he handed them to me so I may take a look.

"So the forehead, eyelids and the shoulders are what show the characteristics. Puckered forehead and constant peering expression are from where she has had to squint in order to see without glasses. Rounded shoulders from constantly slumping forwards in an attempt to get closer to what she wants to see." Luna explained to the officer. From the corner of my eye, I could see Holmes smiling in pride before patting her shoulder gently.

"Yes," I said, "I can follow each of your arguments. I confess, however, that I am unable to understand how you arrive at the double visit to the optician." Holmes took the glasses in his hand.

"Oh, I know this. There has been nothing in the newspaper about an elderly woman being hit by a carriage, meaning that she must have gone to the opticians to buy another pair!" The officer attempted, a smug grin on his face but all my friend, myself and my sister could do was stare at him.

"Hopkins, I now have no idea what I defended you earlier. That makes no sense whatsoever because it is rare that carriage accidents are reported in the paper. This is London; a lot of people are stupid enough to wonder in the middle of the road. The only exceptions to this rule are people of importance or young children. Honestly, what do they teach you at the Yard?" Luna muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose and taking a deep breath. I swear, the more time she spent with the consultant detective, she more she became like him. The thought itself was a rather frightening one. I don't think that England could deal with two of him.

Sherlock, seeming to understand her slight frustration, placed a hand on her hair and stroked it softly, allowing his hand to glide down the long brown curls she refused to put up that morning as she wasn't going to be going out.

"You will perceive," he said, "that the clips are lined with tiny bands of cork to soften the pressure upon the nose. One of these is discoloured and worn to some slight extent, but the other is new. Evidently one has fallen off and been replaced. I should judge that the older of them has not been there more than a few months. They exactly correspond, so I gather that the lady went back to the same establishment for the second."

"By George, it's marvellous!" cried Hopkins, in an ecstasy of admiration. "To think that I had all that evidence in my hand and never knew it! I had intended, however, to go the round of the London opticians."

"Of course you would. Meanwhile, have you anything more to tell us about the case?"

"Nothing, Mr Holmes. I think that you know as much as I do now - probably more. We have had inquiries made as to any stranger seen on the country roads or at the railway station. We have heard of none. What beats me is the utter want of all object in the crime. Not a ghost of a motive can anyone suggest."

"Ah! there I am not in a position to help you. But I suppose you want us to come out to-morrow?"

"If it is not asking too much, Mr Holmes. There's a train from Charing Cross to Chatham at six in the morning, and we should be at Yoxley Old Place between eight and nine."

"Then we shall take it. Your case has certainly some features of great interest, and I shall be delighted to look into it. Well, it's nearly one, and we had best get a few hours' sleep. I dare say you can manage all right on the sofa in front of the fire. I'll light my spirit-lamp and give you a cup of coffee before we start."

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_**Hope you like it!**_

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	15. The Golden Pince Nez Chapter Three

_**So, here's the third chapter to 'The Golden Pince-Nez'. Hope you like it.**_

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi (I have to agree darlin'. If there were two Sherlock's in the world, something bad would happen… like apocalyptic kind of bad. X x x ) and TheGoldenHairMockingjay (There's more coming your way honey! X x x )_

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The gale had blown itself out next day, but it was a bitter morning when we started upon our journey. We saw the cold winter sun rise over the dreary marshes of the Thames and the long, sullen reaches of the river, which I shall ever associate with our pursuit of the Andaman Islander in the earlier days of our career. After a long and weary journey we alighted at a small station some miles from Chatham. While a horse was being put into a trap at the local inn we snatched a hurried breakfast, and so we were all ready for business when we at last arrived at Yoxley Old Place. A constable met us at the garden gate.

"Well, Wilson, any news?"

"No, sir, nothing."

"No reports of any stranger seen?"

"No, sir. Down at the station they are certain that no stranger either came or went yesterday."

"Have you had inquiries made at inns and lodgings?"

"Yes, sir; there is no one that we cannot account for."

"Well, it's only a reasonable walk to Chatham. Anyone might stay there, or take a train without being observed. This is the garden path of which I spoke, Mr Holmes. I'll pledge my word there was no mark on it yesterday."

"On which side were the marks on the grass?"

"This side, sir. This narrow margin of grass between the path and the flower-bed. I can't see the traces now, but they were clear to me then."

"Yes, yes; someone has passed along," said Holmes, stooping over the grass border. "Our lady must have picked her steps carefully, must she not, since on the one side she would leave a track on the path, and on the other an even clearer one on the soft bed?"

"Yes, sir, she must have been a cool hand."

I saw an intent look pass over Holmes's face.

"You say that she must have come back this way?"

"Yes, sir; there is no other."

"On this strip of grass?"

"Certainly, Mr Holmes."

"Hum! It was a very remarkable performance - very remarkable. Well, I think we have exhausted the path. Let us go farther. This garden door is usually kept open, I suppose? Then this visitor had nothing to do but to walk in."

"The idea of murder could not have been in her mind."

"And why not pet?" Holmes asked, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards but she didn't seem to notice. Instead, she stood by his side, looking at the house.

"If murder was in her mind, she would have brought her own weapon and then made sure to take it with her as not to leave evidence. Instead, she picked the knife off of the writing table. After the act, she's shocked, drops the knife and makes her escape. First action of a shocked person, escape the situation. First action of person who had planned murder, remove all possible evidence that could lead to a hanging. Simple really." She told him, beaming in his direction. He simply nodded, probably since we were surrounded by officers but I could tell he wanted to do something else. Especially, as his hand subconsciously twitched towards her. It was actually rather sweet in a way.

Taking hold of her arm, he led us through the hall way, probably trying to retrace the steps of our killer.

"She advanced along this corridor, leaving no traces upon the cocoanut matting. Then, she found herself in this study. How long was she there? We have no means of judging."

"Not more than a few minutes, sir. I forgot to tell you that Mrs Marker, the housekeeper, had been in there tidying not very long before - about a quarter of an hour, she says."

"Well, that gives us a limit. Our lady enters this room and what does she do? She goes over to the writing-table. What for? Not for anything in the drawers. If there had been anything worth her taking it would surely have been locked up. No; it was for something in that wooden bureau. Halloa! what is that scratch upon the face of it? Just hold a match, Watson. Why did you not tell me of this, Hopkins?"

The mark which he was examining began upon the brass work on the right-hand side of the keyhole, and extended for about four inches, where it had scratched the varnish from the surface.

"I noticed it, Mr Holmes. But you'll always find scratches round a keyhole."

"This is recent, quite recent. See how the brass shines where it is cut. An old scratch would be the same colour as the surface. Look at it through my lens. There's the varnish, too, like earth on each side of a furrow. Is Mrs Marker there?"

A sad-faced, elderly woman came into the room.

"Did you dust this bureau yesterday morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you notice this scratch?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"I am sure you did not, for a duster would have swept away these shreds of varnish. Who has the key of this bureau?"

"The Professor keeps it on his watch-chain."

"Is it a simple key?"

"No, sir; it is a Chubb's key."

"Very good. Mrs Marker, you can go. Now we are making a little progress. Our lady enters the room, advances to the bureau, and either opens it or tries to do so. While she is thus engaged young Willoughby Smith enters the room. In her hurry to withdraw the key she makes this scratch upon the door. He seizes her, and she, snatching up the nearest object, which happens to be this knife, strikes at him in order to make him let go his hold. The blow is a fatal one. He falls and she escapes, either with or without the object for which she has come. Is Susan the maid there? Could anyone have got away through that door after the time that you heard the cry, Susan?"

"No sir; it is impossible. Before I got down the stair I'd have seen anyone in the passage. Besides, the door never opened, for I would have heard it."

"That settles this exit. Then no doubt the lady went out the way she came. I understand that this other passage leads only to the Professor's room. There is no exit that way?"

"No, sir."

"We shall go down it and make the acquaintance of the Professor. Halloa, Hopkins! this is very important, very important indeed. The Professor's corridor is also lined with cocoanut matting."

"Well, sir, what of that?"

"Don't you see any bearing upon the case? Well, well, I don't insist upon it. No doubt I am wrong. And yet it seems to me to be suggestive. Come with us and introduce us."

As we passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which led to garden, Luna whispered between the two of us.

"If it's the same length… and the same smell… wouldn't it be possible for her to get confused without her glasses and then run down the wrong one?" As Hopkins walked further down the hallway, Holmes quickly scanned the corridor before pulling my sister towards him by her waist, their lips pressing together softly for a few brief seconds before he released her. She stumbled back a few steps, her face on fire and eyes wide but my friend did nothing more than smirk at her.

"My thoughts exactly darling. My thoughts exactly."

We quickly caught up to our guide, just before he knocked. After hearing the person inside the room yell out in greeting, we were ushered into the bedroom of the professor.

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It was a very large chamber, lined with innumerable volumes, which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. The bed was in the centre of the room, and in it, propped up with pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable-looking person. It was a gaunt, aquiline face which was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes, which lurked in deep hollows under overhung and tufted brows. His hair and beard were white, save that the latter was curiously stained with yellow around his mouth. A cigarette glowed amid the tangle of white hair, and the air of the room was fetid with stale tobacco-smoke. As he held out his hand to Holmes I perceived that it also was stained yellow with nicotine.

"A smoker, Mr Holmes?" said he, speaking well-chosen English with a curious little mincing accent. "Pray take a cigarette. And you, sir, madam? I can recommend them, for I have them especially prepared by Ionides of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for a fresh supply every fortnight. Bad, sir, very bad, but an old man has few pleasures. Tobacco and my work - that is all that is left to me."

Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances all over the room.

"Tobacco and my work, but now only tobacco," the old man exclaimed. "Alas! what a fatal interruption! Who could have foreseen such a terrible catastrophe? So estimable a young man! I assure you that after a few months' training he was an admirable assistant. What do you think of the matter, Mr Holmes?"

"I have not yet made up my mind."

"I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can throw a light where all is so dark to us. To a poor bookworm and invalid like myself such a blow is paralyzing. I seem to have lost the faculty of thought. But you are a man of action - you are a man of affairs. It is part of the everyday routine of your life. You can preserve your balance in every emergency. We are fortunate indeed in having you at our side."

Holmes was pacing up and down one side of the room whilst the old Professor was talking. I observed that he was smoking with extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our host's liking for the fresh Alexandrian cigarettes. What surprised me is that Luna plucked it from his fingers as he paced by, quickly taking a deep breath of the smoke and replacing it once he passed her a moment later though it seemed completely natural.

Of course, I wasn't aware that she smoked but by the way she seemed to savour the taste briefly, allowing it to escape her lips slowly with her eyes closed, showed me she appreciated the quality.

"Since when do you smoke?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"She doesn't but she has shared the wish to try such a thing. As I refuse her the use of my pipe for I don't wish her to choke to death on the smoke, it seems that she has found herself an alternative method to fulfil her desire." Holmes told me, finished the cigarette. "We're sorry sir, please, continue." He said in the direction of the elderly man who didn't hesitate to carry on.

"Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow," said the old man. "That is my MAGNUM OPUS - the pile of papers on the side table yonder. It is my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very foundations of revealed religion. With my enfeebled health I do not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it now that my assistant has been taken from me. Dear me, Mr Holmes; why, you are even a quicker smoker than I am myself."

Holmes smiled.

"I am a connoisseur," said he, taking another cigarette from the box - his fourth - and lighting it from the stub of that which he had finished. "I will not trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination, Professor Coram, since I gather that you were in bed at the time of the crime and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this. What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words: `The Professor - it was she'?"

The Professor shook his head.

"Susan is a country girl," said he, "and you know the incredible stupidity of that class. I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some incoherent delirious words, and that she twisted them into this meaningless message."

"Stupidity of the class. She's not the one writing some useless book and smoking 1000 cigarettes every 14 days." She mumbled beneath her breath, only just loud enough for me to hear her from my place to her right but she painted a smile on her face. The act itself was completely natural but completely false at the same time.

"I see. You have no explanation yourself of the tragedy?"

"Possibly an accident; possibly - I only breathe it among ourselves - a suicide. Young men have their hidden troubles - some affair of the heart, perhaps, which we have never known. It is a more probable supposition than murder."

"But the eye-glasses?"

"Ah! I am only a student - a man of dreams. I cannot explain the practical things of life. But still, we are aware, my friend, that love-gages may take strange shapes. By all means take another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them so. A fan, a glove, glasses - who knows what article may be carried as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his life? This gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass; but, after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it might well be thrown far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child, but to me it seems that Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand."

Holmes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued to walk up and down for some time, lost in thought and consuming cigarette after cigarette.

"Tell me, Professor Coram," he said, at last, "what is in that cupboard in the bureau?"

"Nothing that would help a thief. Family papers, letters from my poor wife, diplomas of Universities which have done me honour. Here is the key. You can look for yourself."

Holmes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant; then he handed it back.

"No; I hardly think that it would help me," said he. "I should prefer to go quietly down to your garden and turn the whole matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide which you have put forward. We must apologize for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that we won't disturb you until after lunch. At two o'clock we will come again and report to you anything which may have happened in the interval."

Holmes was curiously distrait, and we walked up and down the garden path for some time in silence.

"Have you a clue?" I asked, at last.

"It depends upon those cigarettes that I smoked," said he. "It is possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me."

"My god Sherlock… I… I am not even going to comment on it." She murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

"My dear Holmes," I exclaimed, "how on earth -"

"Well, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm done. Of course, we always have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it. Ah, here is the good Mrs Marker! Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her."

I may have remarked before that Holmes had, when he liked, a peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which he had named he had captured the housekeeper's goodwill and was chatting with her as if they had known each other for years. However, while this happened, my sister didn't seem too happy about all of the attention he lavished on the other woman. Admittedly, I found it very amusing. When a man took interest in her, he was the first to act but she didn't move. Instead, she moved to my side and looked at the floor.

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	16. The Golden Pince Nez Chapter Four

_**So, here's the fourth and final chapter to 'The Golden Pince-Nez'. Hope you like it.**_

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Lulu-fifi (I thought that it was only fair to have a little bit of jealousy from her… Glad ya liked it. X)_

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"Yes, Mr Holmes, it is as you say, sir. He does smoke something terrible. All day and sometimes all night, sir. I've seen that room of a morning - well, sir, you'd have thought it was a London fog. Poor young Mr Smith, he was a smoker also, but not as bad as the Professor. His health - well, I don't know that it's better nor worse for the smoking."

"Ah!" said Holmes, "but it kills the appetite."

"Well, I don't know about that, sir."

"I suppose the Professor eats hardly anything?"

"Well, he is variable. I'll say that for him."

"I'll wager he took no breakfast this morning, and won't face his lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume."

"Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable big breakfast this morning. I don't know when I've known him make a better one, and he's ordered a good dish of cutlets for his lunch. I'm surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday and saw young Mr Smith lying there on the floor I couldn't bear to look at food. Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the Professor hasn't let it take his appetite away."

We loitered the rest of the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone down to the village to look into some rumours of a strange woman who had been seen by some children on the Chatham Road the previous morning and much to Sherlock's annoyance, Luna had been invited so she accompanied him with a smile on her face. However, before they left, we made the officer promise to keep an eye on her which he quickly assured he would do.

As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had never known him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that he had found the children and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes's description, and wearing either spectacles or eye-glasses, failed to rouse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who waited upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed Mr Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing of this incident, but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme which he had formed in his brain.

Suddenly he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. "Two o'clock darling, gentlemen," said he. "We must go up and have it out with our friend the Professor."

The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure as he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us. The eternal cigarette smouldered in his mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an arm-chair by the fire.

"Well, Mr Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?" He shoved the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. For a minute or two we were all on our knees retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again I observed that Holmes's eyes were shining and his cheeks tinged with colour. Only at a crisis have I seen those battle-signals flying.

"Yes," said he, "I have solved it."

Stanley Hopkins, Luna and I stared in amazement. Something like a sneer quivered over the gaunt features of the old Professor.

"Indeed! In the garden?"

"No, here."

"Here! When?"

"This instant."

"You are surely joking, Mr Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a fashion."

"I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Coram, and I am sure that it is sound. What your motives are or what exact part you play in this strange business I am not yet able to say. In a few minutes I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile I will reconstruct what is past for your benefit, so that you may know the information which I still require."

"Oh, this should be interesting." My sister murmured, her eyes glued to the floor though I didn't bother to look. Instead, I focused on my friend.

"A lady yesterday entered your study. She came with the intention of possessing herself of certain documents which were in your bureau. She had a key of her own. I have had an opportunity of examining yours, and I do not find that slight discolouration which the scratch made upon the varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and she came, so far as I can read the evidence, without your knowledge to rob you."

The Professor blew a cloud from his lips. "This is most interesting and instructive," said he. "Have you no more to add? Surely, having traced this lady so far, you can also say what has become of her."

"I will endeavour to do so. In the first place she was seized by your secretary, and stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident, for I am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous an injury. An assassin does not come unarmed. Horrified by what she had done she rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately for her she had lost her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted she was really helpless without them. She ran down a corridor, which she imagined to be that by which she had come - both were lined with cocoanut matting - and it was only when it was too late that she understood that she had taken the wrong passage and that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not go back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found herself in your room."

"So Luna was right?"

"Yes, my dear Watson, our darling pet was very correct." He told me, flashing a smile in her direction then casually taking her hand into his. Of course, a smile crept onto my face and a subtle frown onto the officer's.

The old man sat with his mouth open staring wildly at Holmes. Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.

"All very fine, Mr Holmes," said he. "But there is one little flaw in your splendid theory. I was myself in my room, and I never left it during the day."

"I am aware of that, Professor Coram."

"And you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware that a woman had entered my room?"

"I never said so. You WERE aware of it. You spoke with her. You recognised her. You aided her to escape."

Again the Professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his feet and his eyes glowed like embers.

"You are mad!" he cried. "You are talking insanely. I helped her to escape? Where is she now?"

"She is there," said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same instant the bookcase at which Holmes pointed swung round upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. "You are right!" she cried, in a strange foreign voice. "You are right! I am here."

She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come from the walls of her hiding-place. Her face, too, was streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome, for she had the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined, with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural blindness, and what with the change from dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet, in spite of all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman's bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head, which compelled something of respect and admiration. Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently, and yet with an overmastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay back in his chair, with a twitching face, and stared at her with brooding eyes.

"Yes, sir, I am your prisoner from where I stood I could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man," she said, turning to my sister with a small inclination of the head. "But you are right, you who say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a knife which I held in my hand, for in my despair I snatched anything from the table and struck at him to make him let me go. It is the truth that I tell."

"Madam," said Holmes, "I am sure that it is the truth. I fear that you are far from well."

She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark dust-streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the bed; then she resumed.

"I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have you to know the whole truth. I am this man's wife. He is not an Englishman. He is a Russian. His name I will not tell."

For the first time the old man stirred. "God bless you, Anna!" he cried. "God bless you!"

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. "Why should you cling so hard to that wretched life of yours, Sergius?" said she. "It has done harm to many and good to none - not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause the frail thread to be snapped before God's time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this cursed house. But I must speak or I shall be too late.

"I have said, gentlemen, lady, that I am this man's wife. He was fifty and I a foolish girl of twenty when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a University - I will not name the place."

"God bless you, Anna!" murmured the old man again.

"We were reformers - revolutionists - Nihilists, you understand. He and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble, a police officer was killed, many were arrested, evidence was wanted, and in order to save his own life and to earn a great reward my husband betrayed his own wife and his companions. Yes, we were all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows and some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to England with his ill-gotten gains, and has lived in quiet ever since, knowing well that if the Brotherhood knew where he was not a week would pass before justice would be done."

The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a cigarette. "I am in your hands, Anna," said he. "You were always good to me."

"I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said she. "Among our comrades of the Order there was one who was the friend of my heart. He was noble, unselfish, loving - all that my husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty - if that is guilt - but he was not. He wrote for ever dissuading us from such a course. These letters would have saved him. So would my diary, in which from day to day I had entered both my feelings towards him and the view which each of us had taken. My husband found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them, and he tried hard to swear away the young man's life. In this he failed, but Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia, where now, at this moment, he works in a salt mine. Think of that, you villain, you villain; now, now, at this very moment, Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak, works and lives like a slave, and yet I have your life in my hands and I let you go."

"You were always a noble woman, Anna," said the old man, puffing at his cigarette.

She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain. Out of instinct alone, I took a step towards her but my sister had beaten me, rushing to the older woman's side. One hand went to her forehead, the other resting lightly on her hand, much like what she did to Sherlock when he was 'ill'.

"I must finish," she said. "When my term was over I set myself to get the diary and letters which, if sent to the Russian Government, would procure my friend's release. I knew that my husband had come to England. After months of searching I discovered where he was. I knew that he still had the diary, for when I was in Siberia I had a letter from him once reproaching me and quoting some passages from its pages. Yet I was sure that with his revengeful nature he would never give it to me of his own free will. I must get it for myself. With this object I engaged an agent from a private detective firm, who entered my husband's house as secretary - it was your second secretary, Sergius, the one who left you so hurriedly. He found that papers were kept in the cupboard, and he got an impression of the key. He would not go farther. He furnished me with a plan of the house, and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always empty, as the secretary was employed up here. So at last I took my courage in both hands and I came down to get the papers for myself. I succeeded, but at what a cost!"

"I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard when the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me in the road and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Coram lived, not knowing that he was in his employ."

"Exactly! exactly!" said Holmes. "The secretary came back and told his employer of the woman he had met. Then in his last breath he tried to send a message that it was she - the she whom he had just discussed with him."

"You must let me speak," said the woman, in an imperative voice, and her face contracted as if in pain. "When he had fallen I rushed from the room, chose the wrong door, and found myself in my husband's room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law I could give him to the Brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose. He knew that I would do what I said - that his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason and for no other he shielded me. He thrust me into that dark hiding-place, a relic of old days, known only to himself. He took his meals in his own room, and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that when the police left the house I should slip away by night and come back no more. But in some way you have read our plans." She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. "These are my last words," said she; "here is the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice. Take it! You will deliver it at the Russian Embassy. Now I have done my duty, and -"

"Stop her!" cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had wrenched a small phial from her hand.

"Too late!" she said, sinking back on the bed. "Too late! I took the poison before I left my hiding-place. My head swims! I am going! I charge you, sir, to remember the packet."

"A simple case, and yet in some ways an instructive one," Holmes remarked, as we travelled back to town. "It hinged from the outset upon the pince-nez. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man having seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of grass without once making a false step I remarked, as you may remember, that it was a noteworthy performance. In my mind I set it down as an impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she had a second pair of glasses. I was forced, therefore, to seriously consider the hypothesis that she had remained within the house."

"So, on the perceiving the similarity of the two corridors, it became clear that she might have very easily made a mistake. In that case, it was evident that she must have entered the professor's bedroom." Luna said, slipping beneath his arm so she could embrace his side, burying herself into his embrace. I couldn't really blame her, it was rather cold and I was wearing more than a dress and travelling cloak.

"I was keenly on the alert, therefore, for whatever would bear out this supposition, and I examined the room narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding-place. The carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed, so I dismissed the idea of a trap-door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware, such devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled on the floor at all other points, but that one bookcase was left clear. This, then, might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me, but the carpet was of a dun colour, which lends itself very well to examination."

"And I am going to guess that that was the reason for making such a mess of his floor."

"Yes dear. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes, and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick, but exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs and I ascertained, in your presence, Watson, without your perceiving the drift of my remarks, that Professor Coram's consumption of food had increased - as one would expect when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended to the room again, when, by upsetting the cigarette-box, I obtained a very excellent view of the floor, and was able to see quite clearly, from the traces upon the cigarette ash, that the prisoner had, in our absence, come out from her retreat. Well, Hopkins, here we are at Charing Cross, and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a successful conclusion. You are going to head-quarters, no doubt. I think, Watson, you and I will drive together to the Russian Embassy after dropping our darling Luna off back at 221b."

"Thank you Sherlock, don't allow me to go and save a man from Siberia. You know, I believe that you just wish to take all the glory for yourself." She whined sarcastically with a small sigh. Smiling, he leant to the side and pressed a kiss to her temple.

"Yes, pet, I do."

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_**Hope you like it!**_

_**Please review! X x x **_

_**Love you all. **_

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	17. Notes, Drinks And Insecurities

_**So, here's a little bridge chapter from 'The Golden Pince-Nez' to 'The Red Circle'. Hope you like it.**_

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_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to romana45 (Thank you love!) and James Birdsong (Thank you honey, I'm glad to hear that.)_

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_**Also, I'm sorry for not updating this morning but I've been going to the gym and volunteering… then my internet went down for a couple of hours while construct goes on but I'm still going to update daily. Now, question. **_

'_**The Cardboard Box'. Would you prefer it like all of the others? Or, as it's set around Christmas, would you like me to start the other story then update on Christmas day, giving you the whole thing in one chapter?**_

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It was a rather peaceful evening in 221b, a rarity if ever I had the fortune of experiencing one, and I was sat in my old arm chair with a fresh pip in my hand so I could fully appreciate the quiet and peace. Ever since the conclusion of the 'Golden Pince-Nez' case, cases hadn't seemed to be coming with as much hold to my companions. Of course, as Holmes' wasn't 'stimulated' to the proper degree, I was forced to watch over my little sister while she watching over him whenever he turned to his other forms of stimulation.

However, as I was soaking up the ambiance; I heard a distinct female voice coming from Holmes' room. Knowing that it could be from only one lady, I relaxed slightly as it wasn't an uncommon occurrence though I still kept my 'ears open' as they say. It may have been extraordinarily rude but it was better to know exactly what they were arguing over for when the time came that I would have to become the referee of such a slanging match…. Or possibly, now that the consultant detective felt confident that she was more than capable of holding her own, an actually boxing or fencing match without protective wear… again.

"Sherlock, he asked me out for a drink! A drink! Not to bloody marry him!" she yelled. Ah, that must have been the contents of the mysterious note that was dropped off earlier that evening by Mrs Hudson. When asked about it, she simply said that ' it is for Luna so neither of you boys are to peek unless she gives you permission. Am I understood?'. As gentlemen, both me and my friend agreed to her terms, knowing that we would most likely hear it from her. Well, now I was though, admittedly, in a louder volume than I was expecting.

The door opened, removing the barrier that quietened their voices. They both walked out, Holmes in front of Luna but with one look, I could tell that it actually bothered him more than he was letting on. The way his face tensed up, the way he strode forward instead of taking steps. The only time I ever saw him like this was on a difficult case but nine times out of ten, he was smiling too as it was a challenge." And you are going to write him a note back telling him that he can kindly keep the drink."

"It's Hopkins! He's not exactly the seductive type…" she continued but he quickly interrupted her.

"Now but once you've had a few drinks, you will see him in a completely different light." He told her, spinning around quickly. My sister obviously hadn't anticipated the hurried movement as she took a few steps back, resulting in her being pressed up against the wooden door of his bedroom, his hands resting beside her head.

"Sherlock, what's really wrong here? If it was Lestrade, you wouldn't have a problem."

"Lestrade once got lost on his way into the station… Hardly a threat."

"You think Hopkins is a threat? To you? Really?" Though he didn't answer, his silence spoke volumes and each one shocked me more than the last. He felt… what would be the correct word… threatened by the other man which was completely acceptable. A lot of people tended to be but I couldn't help but feel a little angry at him. He didn't trust my sister enough to not do anything with the younger man.

However, my sister didn't seem to be focusing on that. Instead, she cupped his face in her hands, standing on her tip toes to rest their forehead together.

"I love you… not some man who's stupid enough to come to us in a gale with no valuable evidence of the scene." She murmured softly, causing him to chuckle a few times.

"And yet, at one point, you were defending him."

"Yes well, I'm allowed to have a lapse in judgement on occasion, am I not?"

"I suppose so my darling… and… I'm… I must… oh, I apologise."

"It is fine Sherlock. You were a little on edge, you've been bored recently and I cannot blame you for that." She said into his ear, moving her arms to wrap around his neck in a tight embrace. I simply sat there, watching them. The opportunities were becoming more and more but most of the time, I found myself not wishing to intrude on them. How could I?

"And don't worry your pretty little head Watson, we haven't forgotten about you." Sherlock called, looking over his shoulder to throw me a look which clearly said 'We shall be having words later old boy.' To which I responded with a small sigh.

They always notice me.

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_**Hope you like it!**_

_**Please review! X x x **_

_**Love you all. **_

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	18. The Red Circle Chapter One

_**Here's the first chapter of ' The Red Circle', I hope you like it and I'm sorry for not updating yesterday, have a huge problem. My tinternet was off and I was chatting with this guy who is… in a word… perfect! How bad is it that he happens to have a gorgeous, blonde girlfriend?**_

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_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to: Lulu-fifi (Okay love, I shall work on that straight away x x ) and James Birdsong (Thank you honey!)_

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"Well, Mrs Warren, I cannot see that you have any particular cause for any unease, nor do I understand why I, whose time is of some value, should interfere in the matter. I really have other things that engage me." Sherlock Holmes spoke, throwing a wink to my sister who stood beside him before turning back to great scrapbook in which he was arranging and indexing some of his most recent material but the landlady, a friend of Mrs Hudson, had the pertinacity and also the cunning of her sex.

She held her ground firmly.

"You arranged an affair for a lodger of mine last year," she said-"Mr Fairdale Hobbs."

"Ah, yes-a simple matter."

"But he would never cease talking of it-your kindness, sir, and the way in which you brought light into the darkness. I remembered his words when I was in doubt and darkness myself. I know you could if you only would."

Now Holmes was accessible upon the side of flattery, and also, to do him justice, upon the side of kindliness. Believe me, Luna had used the same techniques with him when she wished to get her own way. Her hand crept from his shoulder to the middle of his chest, resting over where his heart was before she leant down, whispering something in his ear. I couldn't tell you what was said or how it was said but when combined with the other two forces, it made him lay down his gum-brush with a small sigh of resignation and pushed his chair back.

"Well, well, Mrs Warren, let us hear about it then. You don't object to tobacco, I take it? Thank you, Watson—the matches! You're uneasy, as I understand, because your new lodger remains in his rooms and you cannot see him. Why, bless you, Mrs Warren. If me and my pet were your lodgers, you often would not see us for weeks on end. Believe me, we can be occupied for long periods of time." Though I understood what he was attempting to say, the look on both the elder woman's face and Luna's was a sight to see. The elderly woman simply stared at him for a few brief seconds, her mouth open slightly in shock before the fear became obvious and she closed it. As for my sister, a faint pink blush was slowly creeping up her neck.

"No doubt, sir; but this is different. It frightens me, Mr Holmes. I can't sleep for fright. To hear his quick step moving here and moving there from early morning to late at night, and yet never to catch so much as a glimpse of him-it's more than I can stand. My husband is as nervous over it as I am, but he is out at his work all day, while I get no rest from it. What is he hiding for? What has he done? Except for the girl, I am all alone in the house with him, and it's more than my nerves can stand."

Holmes leaned forward and laid his long, thin fingers upon the woman's shoulder. He had an almost hypnotic power of soothing when he wished. The scared look faded from her eyes, and her agitated features smoothed into their usual commonplace. She sat down in the chair which he had indicated.

"If I take it up I must understand every detail," said he. "Take time to consider. The smallest point may be the most essential. You say that the man came ten days ago and paid you for a fortnight's board and lodging?"

"He asked my terms, sir. I said fifty shillings a week. There is a small sitting-room and bedroom, and all complete, at the top of the house."

"Well?"

"He said, 'I'll pay you five pounds a week if I can have it on my own terms.' I'm a poor woman, sir, and Mr Warren earns little, and the money meant much to me. He took out a ten-pound note, and he held it out to me then and there. 'You can have the same every fortnight for a long time to come if you keep the terms,' he said. 'If not, I'll have no more to do with you.'"

"Okay ma'am. Now, can you tell us of the terms?" Lu asked, moving to stand beside the woman. Like she did with Sherlock, her hand rested on her shoulder, her thumb rubbing in a slow circular rhythm which calmed her even further.

"Terms?"

"Yes. As you said, he had terms and happily paid twice the asked amount for the promise that you would keep them. Mr Holmes and I will need to know what he said."

"Well, Mrs Holmes, they were that he was to have a key to the house. That was all right as many of my lodgers often have them. Also, that he was to be left entirely to himself and never, upon any excuse, disturbed." Mrs Warren was intently explaining to my sister but the moment she looked away, my sister looked as though she was panicking. No doubt from the confusion though Holmes didn't show any discomfort at the idea which filled me with such a feeling. Instead, he carried on with his questioning.

"Nothing wonderful in that, surely?"

"Not in reason, sir. But this is out of all reason. He has been there for ten days, and neither Mr Warren, nor I, nor the girl has once set eyes upon him. We can hear that quick step of his pacing up and down, up and down, night, morning, and noon; but except on that first night he had never once gone out of the house."

"Oh, he went out the first night, did he?"

"Yes, sir, and returned very late-after we were all in bed. He told me after he had taken the rooms that he would do so and asked me not to bar the door. I heard him come up the stair after midnight."

"But his meals?"

"It was his particular direction that we should always, when he rang, leave his meal upon a chair, outside his door. Then he rings again when he has finished, and we take it down from the same chair. If he wants anything else he prints it on a slip of paper and leaves it."

"Prints it?"

"Yes, sir; prints it in pencil. Just the word, nothing more. Here's the one I brought to show you-soap. Here's another- match. This is one he left the first morning-daily gazette. I leave that paper with his breakfast every morning."

"Dear me, Watson," said Homes, staring with great curiosity at the slips of foolscap which the landlady had handed to him, "this is certainly a little unusual. Seclusion I can understand; but why print? Printing is a clumsy process. Why not write? What would it suggest?"

"That he desired to conceal his handwriting." My sister speculated, sighing quietly. The detective nodded thoughtfully.

"But why? What can it matter to him that his landlady should have a word of his writing? Still, it may be as you say. Then, again, why such laconic messages?"

"I cannot imagine." I told him. When he looked to my sister, she simply shrugged her shoulders.

"He could be a doctor. If that's the case, his handwriting is most certainly unreadable." She commented, throwing a small smirk in my direction to which I chuckled. She was always trying to get me to neaten up my writing though, no matter how hard I tried, it still looked as though I had allowed a spider into my ink before running across my page.

"It opens a pleasing field for intelligent speculation. The words are written with a broad-pointed, violet-tinted pencil of a not unusual pattern. You will observe that the paper is torn away at the side here after the printing was done, so that the 's' of 'soap' is partly gone. Suggestive, Watson, is it not?"

"Of caution?"

"Exactly. There was evidently some mark, some thumbprint, something which might give a clue to the person's identity. Now. Mrs Warren, you say that the man was of middle size, dark, and bearded. What age would he be?"

"Youngish, sir-not over thirty."

"Well, can you give me no further indications?"

"He spoke good English, sir, and yet I thought he was a foreigner by his accent."

"And he was well dressed?"

"Very smartly dressed, sir-quite the gentleman. Dark clothes- nothing you would note."

"He gave no name?"

"No, sir."

"And has had no letters or callers?"

"None."

"But surely you or the girl enter his room of a morning?"

"No, sir; he looks after himself entirely."

"Oh my lord, that is certainly remarkable! A lodger, who takes care of himself? Surely madam, you are joking with us!" Luna cried, her hand resting on her forehead so it looked as though she was about to swoon. Of course, Sherlock realised the subtle taunting as he glared in her direction.

"Is that supposed to mean something, my dear?"

"Yes! You can't even boil a bloody kettle! If Mrs Hudson isn't here, I'm the one who's forced to do it! There would be no way you could live in perfect solitude! No man could… unless they had a woman hidden in the room with them. If not, I dread to think of the implications or the state the house could be in." she explained, smirking lightly at him with a strange glint in her eyes. Though I couldn't read or understand it, my friend did perfectly as he carried on.

"Dear me! That is certainly remarkable. What about his luggage?"

"He had one big brown bag with him-nothing else."

"Well, we don't seem to have much material to help us. Do you say nothing has come out of that room-absolutely nothing?"

The landlady drew an envelope from her bag; from it she shook out two burnt matches and a cigarette-end upon the table.

"They were on his tray this morning. I brought them because I had heard that you can read great things out of small ones."Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"There is nothing here," said he. "The matches have, of course, been used to light cigarettes. That is obvious from the shortness of the burnt end. Half the match is consumed in lighting a pipe or cigar. But, dear me! This cigarette stub is certainly remarkable. The gentleman was bearded and moustached, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't understand that. I should say that only a clean-shaven man could have smoked this. Why, Watson, even your modest moustache would have been singed."

"A holder?" I suggested.

"No, no; the end is matted. I suppose there could not be two people in your rooms, Mrs Warren?"

"No, sir. He eats so little that I often wonder it can keep life in one."

"Well, I think we must wait for a little more material. After all, you have nothing to complain of. You have received your rent, and he is not a troublesome lodger, though he is certainly an unusual one. He pays you well, and if he chooses to lie concealed it is no direct business of yours. We have no excuse for an intrusion upon his privacy until we have some reason to think that there is a guilty reason for it. I've taken up the matter, and I won't lose sight of it. Report to me if anything fresh occurs, and rely upon my assistance if it should be needed." When he finished speaking, my sister escorted the elderly woman out of the flat and down the stairs. In the living room of 221b, I could hear their quiet chatter though something I noticed was that, even though the opportunity had presented itself to her, she hadn't corrected her marital status.

"There are certainly some points of interest in this case, Watson," he remarked when the ladies had left us. "It may, of course, be trivial-individual eccentricity; or it may be very much deeper than appears on the surface. The first thing that strike one is the obvious possibility that the person now in the rooms may be entirely different from the one who engaged them."

"Why should you think so?"

"Well, apart from this cigarette-end, was it not suggestive that the only time the lodger went out was immediately after his taking the rooms? He came back-or someone came back-when all witnesses were out of the way. We have no proof that the person who came back was the person who went out. Then, again, the man who took the rooms spoke English well. This other, however, prints 'match' when it should have been 'matches.' I can imagine that the word was taken out of a dictionary, which would give the noun but not the plural. The laconic style may be to conceal the absence of knowledge of English. Yes, Watson, there are good reasons to suspect that there has been a substitution of lodgers."

"But for what possible end?"

"Ah! There lies our problem. There is one rather obvious line of investigation." He took down the great book in which, day by day, he filed the agony columns of the various London journals. "Dear me!" said he, turning over the pages, "what a chorus of groans, cries, and bleatings! What a rag-bag of singular happenings! But surely the most valuable hunting-ground that ever was given to a student of the unusual! This person is alone and cannot be approached by letter without a breach of that absolute secrecy which is desired. How is any news or any message to reach him from without? Obviously by advertisement through a newspaper. There seems no other way, and fortunately we need concern ourselves with the one paper only. Here are the Daily Gazette extracts of the last fortnight. 'Lady with a black boa at Prince's Skating Club'-that we may pass. 'Surely Jimmy will not break his mother's heart'-that appears to be irrelevant. 'If the lady who fainted on Brixton bus'-she does not interest me. 'Every day my heart longs-' Bleat, Watson- unmitigated bleat! Ah, this is a little more possible. Listen to this: 'Be patient. Will find some sure means of communications. Meanwhile, this column. G.' That is two days after Mrs Warren's lodger arrived. It sounds plausible, does it not? The mysterious one could understand English, even if he could not print it. Let us see if we can pick up the trace again. Yes, here we are-three days later. 'Am making successful arrangements. Patience and prudence. The clouds will pass. G.' Nothing for a week after that. Then comes something much more definite: 'The path is clearing. If I find chance signal message remember code agreed-One A, two B, and so on. You will hear soon. G.' That was in yesterday's paper, and there is nothing in to-day's. It's all very appropriate to Mrs Warren's lodger. If we wait a little, Watson, I don't doubt that the affair will grow more intelligible."

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_**Please review! X x x**_

_**Love you all.**_

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	19. The Red Circle Chapter Two

_**Here's the second chapter of 'The Red Circle'. I hope that you like it and I'm sorry for not updating for a while. Ever since school quit for the summer, I began to volunteer at my work placement which is actually pretty cool but when they call, I have to go in order to fill in for people. So, for a while, it means that my stories will have to be updated a slower rate though not as long as this. I will aim for once every 2-3 days. **_

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_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to:_

_The GoldenHairedMockingJay (Thank you honey!)_

_Guest ( I will try and write faster for thee darling.)_

_Guest ( Thank you though I don't think I'd agree myself.)_

_Romana45 ( Here is it for ya love.)_

_James Birdsong (I'm sorry for that and I will try and improve the quality of my chapters from here on out. Thanks for telling me.)_

_Guest ( Thank you sugar! So sorry for the sort of obsession!)_

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So it proved; for in the morning I found my friend standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire and a smile of complete satisfaction upon his face while my sister sipped from a cup of tea, sat on the floor by his chair. Personally, I think I should make a note somewhere to get her a chair of her own, to save her sitting by Holmes' like some loyal pup.

"Look what your beautiful sister found this morning Watson!" he cried, picking up the paper that rested on his chair beside Luna. "'High red house with white stone facings. Third floor. Second window left. After dusk. G.' That is definitely enough. I think that after breakfast, we must make a little reconnaissance of Mrs Warren's neighbourhood."

"No need love, guess who just decided to pop in for a visit?" Luna asked, standing up though the moment she showed the slightest bit of difficulty with the tea cup, Holmes' took it from her hand then replaced it once she was up straight. I couldn't help but roll my eyes at his over protective behaviour.

"Ah, Mrs Warren! what news do you bring us this morning?"

Our client had suddenly burst into the room with an explosive energy which told of some new and momentous development.

"It's a police matter, Mr Holmes!" she cried. "I'll have no more of it! He shall pack out of there with his baggage. I would have gone straight up and told him so, only I thought it was but fair to you to take your opinion first. But I'm at the end of my patience, and when it comes to knocking my old man about-"

"Knocking Mr Warren about?"

"Using him roughly, anyway."

"But who used him roughly?"

"Ah! that's what we want to know! It was this morning, sir. Mr Warren is a timekeeper at Morton and Waylight's, in Tottenham Court Road. He has to be out of the house before seven. Well, this morning he had not gone ten paces down the road when two men came up behind him, threw a coat over his head, and bundled him into a cab that was beside the curb. They drove him an hour, and then opened the door and shot him out. He lay in the roadway so shaken in his wits that he never saw what became of the cab. When he picked himself up he found he was on Hampstead Heath; so he took a bus home, and there he lies now on his sofa, while I came straight round to tell you what had happened."

"Most interesting," said Holmes. "Did he observe the appearance of these men-did he hear them talk?"

"No; he is clean dazed. He just knows that he was lifted up as if by magic and dropped as if by magic. Two at least were in it, and maybe three."

"And you connect this attack with your lodger?"

"Well, we've lived there fifteen years and no such happenings ever came before. I've had enough of him. Money's not everything. I'll have him out of my house before the day is done."

"Wait a bit, Mrs Warren. Do nothing rash. I begin to think that this affair may be very much more important than appeared at first sight. It is clear now that some danger is threatening your lodger. It is equally clear that his enemies, lying in wait for him near your door, mistook your husband for him in the foggy morning light. On discovering their mistake they released him. What they would have done had it not been a mistake, we can only conjecture."

"Well, what am I to do, Mr Holmes?"

"Mrs Warren, we shall need to meet this lodger of yours." My sister explained, moving to stand beside the detective whose hand, without him seeming to realise, moved to rest on her lower back lightly.

"I don't see how that is to be managed Mrs Holmes, unless you break in the door. I always hear him unlock it as I go down the stair after I leave the tray."

"So he must take his tray in? We can surely conceal ourselves and see him do it. This would give us a good idea of whom we're dealing with…especially as Sherlock made me memorise the top 20 criminals wanted in the country so I would know one when I saw them." Lord, I could remember that week. He had given her a test every meal of every day for three months to make sure that she definitely knew them apart. Afterwards, he told her to describe whichever he gave the name of.

The landlady thought for a moment.

"Well, sir, madam, there's the box-room opposite. I could arrange a looking-glass, maybe, and if you were behind the door-"

"Excellent!" said Holmes. "When does he lunch?"

"About one, sir."

"Then Dr Watson, my wife and I will come round in time. For the present, Mrs Warren, good-bye."

"Was it necessary for you to lie to her?" Luna asked, turning to look up at him when the other woman left but he simply smirked back.

"You had ample opportunity to correct her yesterday but you didn't. Besides, women seem more comfortable around married men. If this little… bend in the truth helps us with this case, I shall take full advantage of it… _wife._" Sighing, she shook her head at his actions while I simply stared at him. He couldn't be serious. He didn't need people to feel comfortable around him! He kept Scotland Yard on pins and needles because he found it amusing to watch them dance around his deductions.

"Fine _husband _but if you think you're going to use this as an opportunity to order me around, you think again. I will still not follow everything you say." Chuckling, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple.

"I wouldn't have expected anything different from you darling. Now, come along and bring my _brother in law _with you, if you'd be so kind. See Watson? Brothers not by blood but by bond… sound familiar?" he asked with a small smile. I nodded briefly. That was what my sister had said the first month of staying with us.

"_I'm glad to see that you've replaced me with him John! Though, unlike me, he's your brother not by blood but by bond and I'm happy for you. You always wanted a brother growing up."_

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_**Hope you like it!**_

_**Please review! X x x**_

_**Love you all.**_

_**So, Do you like it? Do you hate it? Do you want faster updates? Do you want me to just delete the story and crawl back into my hole? Tell me by dropping a review in the little box down there**_

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	20. The Red Circle Chapter Three

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to TheGoldenHairedMockingjay (Thanks, I thought it would be cute.) and Crazylily1007 (Thanks for loving my story Honey!)_

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At half-past twelve we found ourselves upon the steps of Mrs Warren's house-a high, thin, yellow-brick edifice in Great Orme Street, a narrow thoroughfare at the northeast side of the British Museum. Standing as it does near the corner of the street, it commands a view down Howe Street, with its ore pretentious houses. Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential flats, which projected so that they could not fail to catch the eye.

"See, Watson!" said he. "'High red house with stone facings.' There is the signal station all right. We know the place, and we know the code; so surely our task should be simple. There's a 'to let' card in that window. It is evidently an empty flat to which the confederate has access. Well, Mrs Warren, what now?"

"I have it all ready for you. If you will all come up and leave your boots below on the landing, I'll put you there now."

It was an excellent hiding-place which she had arranged. The mirror was so placed that, seated in the dark, we could very plainly see the door opposite. We had hardly settled down in it, and Mrs Warren left us, when a distant tinkle announced that our mysterious neighbour had rung. Presently the landlady appeared with the tray, laid it down upon a chair beside the closed door, and then, treading heavily, departed. Crouching together in the angle of the door, we kept our eyes fixed upon the mirror. Suddenly, as the landlady's footsteps died away, there was the creak of a turning key, the handle revolved, and two thin hands darted out and lifted the tray form the chair. An instant later it was hurriedly replaced, and I caught a glimpse of a dark, beautiful, horrified face glaring at the narrow opening of the box-room. Then the door crashed to, the key turned once more, and all was silence. Holmes twitched at my sleeve, tapped my sister's shoulder and together, all stole down the stairs.

"Me and my wife shall call again in the evening," said he to the expectant landlady. "I think, Watson, darling, we can discuss this business better in our own quarters."

"My surmise, as you saw, proved to be correct," said he, speaking from the depths of his easy-chair. "There has been a substitution of lodgers. What I did not foresee is that we should find a woman, and no ordinary woman, Watson."

"She saw us."

"Well, she saw something to alarm her. That is certain. The general sequence of events is pretty clear, is it not? A couple seek refuge in London from a very terrible and instant danger. The measure of that danger is the rigour of their precautions. The man, who has some work which he must do, desires to leave the woman in absolute safety while he does it. It is not an easy problem, but he solved it in an original fashion, and so effectively that her presence was not even known to the landlady who supplies her with food. The printed messages, as is now evident, were to prevent her sex being discovered by her writing. The man cannot come near the woman, or he will guide their enemies to her. Since he cannot communicate with her direct, he has recourse to the agony column of a paper. So far all is clear."

"So I was correct? There had to be a woman there." Luna murmured from her place by his feet. As usual, he placed a hand on her head.

"Yes. Your playful teasing held some bearing over the case. Now, get off of the floor. I can tell by the way your brother is looking at you that he doesn't approve of your seating arrangement. Here, take my seat and shall stand."

"I am not stealing your place Sherlock. John, I'm sorry if you don't approve but I have sat here since moving in so I will not be changing position now, why don't we carry on with the case?" she told me, her eyes narrowed slightly. There it was, the 'I'm set in my ways' gaze.

"But what is at the root of it?"

"Ah, yes, Watson-severely practical, as usual! What is at the root of it all? Mrs Warren's whimsical problem enlarges somewhat and assumes a more sinister aspect as we proceed. This much we can say: that it is no ordinary love escapade. You saw the woman's face at the sign of danger. We have heard, too, of the attack upon the landlord, which was undoubtedly meant for the lodger. These alarms, and the desperate need for secrecy, argue that the matter is one of life or death. The attach upon Mr Warren further shows that the enemy, whoever they are, are themselves not aware of the substitution of the female lodger for the male. It is very curious and complex, Watson."

"Why should you go further in it? What have you to gain from it?"

"What, indeed? It is art for art's sake, Watson. I suppose when you doctored you found yourself studying cases without thought of a fee?"

"For my education, Holmes."

"Education never ends, Watson. It is a series of lessons with the greatest for the last. This is an instructive case. There is neither money nor credit in it, and yet one would wish to tidy it up. When dusk comes we should find ourselves one stage advanced in our investigation."

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_**Love you all.**_

_**So, Do you like it? Do you hate it? Do you want faster updates? Do you want me to just delete the story and crawl back into my hole? Tell me by dropping a review in the little box down there**_

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	21. The Red Circle Chapter Four

When we returned to Mrs Warren's rooms, the gloom of a London winter evening had thickened into one gray curtain, a dead monotone of colour, broken only by the sharp yellow squares of the windows and the blurred haloes of the gas-lamps. As we peered from the darkened sitting-room of the lodging-house, one more dim light glimmered high up through the obscurity.

"Someone is moving in that room," said Holmes in a whisper, his gaunt and eager face thrust forward to the window-pane. "Yes, I can see his shadow. There he is again! He has a candle in his hand. Now he is peering across. He wants to be sure that she is on the lookout. Now he begins to flash. Take the message also, Watson, that we may check each other. A single flash-that is A, surely. Now, then. How many did you make it? Twenty. Do did In. That should mean T. AT-that's intelligible enough. Another T. Surely this is the beginning of a second word. Now, then-TENTA. Dead stop. That can't be all, Watson? ATTENTO gives no sense. Nor is it any better as three words AT, TEN, TO, unless T. A. are a person's initials. There it goes again! What's that? ATTE-why, it is the same message over again. Curious, Watson, very curious. Now he is off once more! AT-why he is repeating it for the third time. ATTENTO three times! How often will he repeat it? No, that seems to be the finish. He has withdrawn from the window. What do you make of it, darling?"

"A message… Attento… I've heard it somewhere… that man who works in the café near us."

"Luna, are you sure?" I asked, not seeing how what the café owner could link in with the case.

"Yes… He said it last week when we went for lunch with Mary… Attento… It's Italian! When I went to eat the pasta, he said ' Attento, it's very hot.'" She explained.

My companion stared at my sister, a smile making its way onto his face though luckily, no kiss took place. " Angelo… I can always count on him. Attento translates to 'beware' or 'careful'. What do you think Watson?"

"I believe you have both hit the mark."

"Not a doubt of it. It is a very urgent message, thrice repeated to make it more so. But beware of what? Wait a bit, he is coming to the window once more."

Again we saw the dim silhouette of a crouching man and the whisk of the small flame across the window as the signals were renewed. They came more rapidly than before-so rapid that it was hard to follow them.

"PERICOLO-pericolo-eh, what's that, Watson? 'Danger,' isn't it? Yes, by Jove, it's a danger signal. There he goes again! PERI. Halloa, what on earth-"

The light had suddenly gone out, the glimmering square of window had disappeared, and the third floor formed a dark band round the lofty building, with its tiers of shining casements. That last warning cry had been suddenly cut short. How, and by whom? The same thought occurred on the instant to all three of us. Holmes sprang up from where he crouched by the window.

"This is serious, Watson," he cried. "There is some devilry going forward! Why should such a message stop in such a way? I should put Scotland Yard in touch with this business-and yet, it is too pressing for us to leave."

"Shall I go for the police?"

"We must define the situation a little more clearly. It may bear some more innocent interpretation. Come along darling, my dear Watson, let us go across ourselves and see what we can make of it."

As we walked rapidly down Howe Street I glanced back at the building which we had left. There, dimly outlined at the top window, I could see the shadow of a head, a woman's head, gazing tensely, rigidly, out into the night, waiting with breathless suspense for the renewal of that interrupted message. At the doorway of the Howe Street flats a man, muffled in a cravat and greatcoat, was leaning against the railing. He started as the hall-light fell upon our faces.

"Holmes!" he cried.

"Why, Gregson!" said my companion as he shook hands with the Scotland Yard detective. "Journeys end with lovers' meetings. What brings you here?"

"The same reasons that bring you, I expect," said Gregson. "How you got on to it I can't imagine."

"Different threads, but leading up to the same tangle. I've been taking the signals."

"Signals?"

"Yes, from that window. They broke off in the middle. We came over to see the reason. But since it is safe in your hands I see no object in continuing this business."

"Wait a bit!" cried Gregson eagerly. "I'll do you this justice, Mr Holmes, that I was never in a case yet that I didn't feel stronger for having you on my side. There's only the one exit to these flats, so we have him safe."

"Who is he?"

"Well, well, we score over you for once, Mr Holmes. You must give us best this time." He struck his stick sharply upon the ground, on which a cabman, his whip in his hand, sauntered over from a four-wheeler which stood on the far side of the street. "May I introduce you to Mr Sherlock Holmes?" he said to the cabman. "This is Mr Leverton, of Pinkerton's American Agency."

"The hero of the Long Island cave mystery?" said Holmes.

"Yes love. I'm very pleased to meet you sir." Luna told him, offering her hand to the man. The American, a quiet, business like young man, with a clean-shaven, hatchet face, flushed up at the words of commendation but accepted her hand never the less, shaking it a few times then releasing her though he showed no inappropriate interest. Well, no interest that Sherlock may have found deemed as inappropriate.

"I am on the trail of my life now, Ma'am, Mr Holmes," said he. "If I can get Gorgiano-"

"What! Gorgiano of the Red Circle?" My sister inquired, interrupting the officer but seeming all the more impressed by him. Sometimes, I believe Holmes' bad habits were rubbing off on her which was slightly frustrating at times. Ladies shouldn't interrupt… or brawl… or have to memorise criminals.

"Oh, he has a European fame, has he? Well, we've learned all about him in America. We KNOW he is at the bottom of fifty murders, and yet we have nothing positive we can take him on. I tracked him over from New York, and I've been close to him for a week in London, waiting some excuse to get my hand on his collar. Mr Gregson and I ran him to ground in that big tenement house, and there's only one door, so he can't slip us. There's three folk come out since he went in, but I'll swear he wasn't one of them."

"Mr Holmes talks of signals," said Gregson. "I expect, as usual, he knows a good deal that we don't."

In a few clear words Holmes explained the situation as it had appeared to us. The American struck his hands together with vexation.

"He's on to us!" he cried.

"Why do you think so?"

"Well, it figures out that way, does it not? Here he is, sending out messages to an accomplice-there are several of his gang in London. Then suddenly, just as by your own account he was telling them that there was danger, he broke short off. What could it mean except that from the window he had suddenly either caught sight of us in the street, or in some way come to understand how close the danger was, and that he must act right away if he was to avoid it? What do you suggest, Mr Holmes?"

"How about we go up there now and see for ourselves?" Luna suggested, gesturing to the window but all the American did was chuckle at her, seeing the situation humorous no doubt but it wasn't.

"Look, sweetheart, you might not be able to understand this but we have no warrant for his arrest."

"He is currently in unoccupied premises under suspicious circumstances," she explained. "That's more than enough for the moment as it gives us grounds to investigate. After, we can arrest him and take him to interrogate. When we have him in the station, we can see if New York can help us keep him so please sir, don't laugh and think I know nothing for I've had to read up on it for the last three years!" To say the man looked shocked would be an understatement. If I had to describe him right now, I would say that he had no idea where to put himself as he nervously shuffled around.

"I'll take the responsibility of arresting him now." Gregson offered. Our official detectives may blunder in the matter of intelligence, but never in that of courage.

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	22. The Red Circle Chapter Five

_I'd like to dedicate this chapter to TheGoldenHairedMockingJay (She loves you too honey!) and Guest (I will try.)_

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Gregson climbed the stair to arrest this desperate murderer with the same absolutely quiet and business like bearing with which he would have ascended the official staircase of Scotland Yard. The Pinkerton man had tried to push past him, but Gregson had firmly elbowed him back. London dangers were the privilege of the London force.

The door of the left-hand flat upon the third landing was standing ajar. Gregson pushed it open. Within all was absolute silence and darkness. I struck a match and lit the Holmes' lantern. As I did so, and as the flicker steadied into a flame, we all gave a gasp of surprise. On the deal boards of the carpet less floor there was outlined a fresh track of blood. The red steps pointed towards us and led away from an inner room, the door of which was closed. Gregson flung it open and held his light full blaze in front of him, while we all peered eagerly over his shoulders.

In the middle of the floor of the empty room was huddled the figure of an enormous man, his clean-shaven, swarthy face grotesquely horrible in its contortion and his head encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of blood, lying in a broad wet circle upon the white woodwork. His knees were drawn up, his hands thrown out in agony, and from the centre of his broad, brown, upturned throat there projected the white haft of a knife driven blade-deep into his body. Giant as he was, the man must have gone down like a pole-axed ox before that terrific blow. Beside his right hand a most formidable horn-handled, two-edged dagger lay upon the floor, and near it a black kid glove.

"By George! it's Black Gorgiano himself!" cried the American detective. "Someone has got ahead of us this time."

"Here is the candle in the window, Mr Holmes," said Gregson. "Why, whatever are you doing?"

Holmes had stepped across, had lit the candle, and was passing it backward and forward across the window-panes. Then he peered into the darkness, blew the candle out, and threw it on the floor.

"I rather think that will be helpful," he said, walking over and stood beside Luna, his expression one of deep thought while the professionals examined the body. I found it rather strange that she hadn't spoken so I glanced over, trying to make sure that she was okay but what I saw shocked me. Her face had completely drained of colour, her shoulders shaking as though she was sobbing but the hand that was clamped tightly over her mouths stopped the words from coming out. That's when it hit me.

She had never seen a dead body before…. Unless it was already cleaned and in the hospital, awaiting burial.

Of course, Sherlock Holmes remained ever oblivious, probably misjudging her obvious shock as interest.

"You say that three people came out form the flat while you were waiting downstairs," said he at last. "Did you observe them closely?"

"Yes, I did."

"Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middle size?"

"Yes; he was the last to pass me."

"That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, and we have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should be enough for you."

"Not much, Mr Holmes, among the millions of London."

"Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this lady to your aid."

We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway, was a tall and beautiful woman-the mysterious lodger of Bloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn with a frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrified gaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor.

"You have killed him!" she muttered. "Oh, Dio mio, you have killed him!" Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath, and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and round the room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleaming with delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamations pouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such a woman so convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stopped and gazed at us all with a questioning stare.

"But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed Giuseppe Gorgiano. Is it not so?"

"We are police, madam."

She looked round into the shadows of the room.

"But where, then, is Gennaro?" she asked. "He is my husband, Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from New York. Where is Gennaro? He called me this moment from this window, and I ran with all my speed."

"It was I who called," said Holmes.

"You! How could you call?"

"Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here was desirable. I knew that I had only to flash 'Vieni' and you would surely come."

The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.

"I do not understand how you know these things," she said. "Giuseppe Gorgiano-how did he-" She paused, and then suddenly her face lit up with pride and delight. "Now I see it! My Gennaro! My splendid, beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded me safe from all harm, he did it, with his own strong hand he killed the monster! Oh, Gennaro, how wonderful you are! What woman could every be worthy of such a man?"

"Well, Mrs Lucca," said the prosaic Gregson, laying his hand upon the lady's sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were a Notting Hill hooligan, "I am not very clear yet who you are or what you are; but you've said enough to make it very clear that we shall want you at the Yard."

"One moment, Gregson," said Holmes. "I rather fancy that this lady may be as anxious to give us information as we can be to get it. You understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested and tried for the death of the man who lays before us? What you say may be used in evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motives which are not criminal, and which he would wish to have known, then you cannot serve him better than by telling us the whole story."

"Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing," said the lady. "He was a devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the world who would punish my husband for having killed him."

"In that case," said Holmes, "my suggestion is that we lock this door, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room ,and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has to say to us."

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	23. The Red Circle Chapter Six

_**Sorry about the updates kiddywinks... a lot on my plate but don't worry... I'll give you two today to make up for it. **_

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_I'd like to dedicate this to : Lulu-fifi ( Thanks for understanding my views on the marriage thing.) Crazylily ( Thank you honey!) Guest (Thank you!) McCoy'sGirl (Will do darlin'.) and bookworm4evrandalways (Thanking you Wormie poo.)_

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Half an hour later, all five of us were seated in the small sitting room of Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative of those sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced to witness. My sister sat tightly against my side, her arms wrapped around herself as she trembled terribly from some unknown emotion to me. Of course, Holmes' hadn't really showed much interest in her, not when a murder was there so I had tried to take care of her though it seemed as though she didn't want it as it took me a couple of minutes to get her to sit down.

In front of us sat the beautiful Italian woman who spoke in rapid and fluent but every conventional English, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.

"I was born in Posilippo, near Naples," said she, "and was the daughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once the deputy of that part. Gennaro was in my father's employment, and I came to love him, as any woman must. He had neither money nor position-nothing but his beauty and strength and energy-so my father forbade the match. We fled together, were married at Bari, and sold my jewels to gain the money which would take us to America. This was four years ago, and we have been in New York ever since.

"Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do a service to an Italian gentleman-he saved him from some ruffians in the place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend. His name was Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner of the great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruit importers of New York. Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our new friend Castalotte has all power within the firm, which employs more than three hundred men. He took my husband into his employment, made him head of a department, and showed his goodwill towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was a bachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, and both my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. We had taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our whole future seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which was soon to overspread our sky.

"One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he brought a fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, and he had come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you can testify, for you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his body that of a giant but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic, and terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our little house. There was scarce room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked. His thoughts, his emotions, his passions, all were exaggerated and monstrous. He talked, or rather roared, with such energy that others could but sit and listen, cowed with the mighty stream of words. His eyes blazed at you and held you at his mercy. He was a terrible and wonderful man. I thank God that he is dead!

"He came again and again. Yet I was aware that Gennaro was no more happy than I was in his presence. My poor husband would sit pale and listless, listening to the endless raving upon politics and upon social questions which made up or visitor's conversation. Gennaro said nothing, but I, who knew him so well, could read in his face some emotion which I had never seen there before. At first I thought that it was dislike. And then, gradually, I understood that it was more than dislike. It was fear-a deep, secret, shrinking fear. That night-the night that I read his terror-I put my arms round him and I implored him by his love for me and by all that he held dear to hold nothing from me, and to tell me why this huge man overshadowed him so."

"He told me, and my own heart grew cold as ice as I listened. My poor Gennaro, in his wild and fiery days, when all the world seemed against him and his mind was driven half mad by the injustices of life, had joint a Neapolitan society, the Red Circle, which was allied to the old Carbonari. The oaths and secrets of this brotherhood were frightful, but once within its rule no escape was possible. When we had fled to America Gennaro thought that he had cast it all off forever. What was his horror one evening to meet in the streets the very man who had initiated him in Naples, the giant Gorgiano, a man who had earned the name of 'Death' in the south of Italy, for he was red to the elbow in murder! He had come to New York to avoid the Italian police, and he had already planted a branch of this dreadful society in his new home. All this Gennaro told me and showed me a summons which he had received that very day, a Red Circle drawn upon the head of it telling him that a lodge would be held upon a certain date, and that his presence at it was required and ordered."

"That was bad enough, but worse was to come. I had noticed for some time that when Gorgiano came to us, as he constantly did, in the evening, he spoke much to me; and even when his words were to my husband those terrible, glaring, wild-beast eyes of his were always turned upon me. One night his secret came out. I had awakened what he called 'love' within him-the love of a brute-a savage. Gennaro had not yet returned when he came. He pushed his way in, seized me in his mighty arms, hugged me in his bear's embrace, covered me with kisses, and implored me to come away with him. I was struggling and screaming when Gennaro entered and attacked him. He struck Gennaro senseless and fled from the house which he was never more to enter. It was a deadly enemy that we made that night."

"A few days later came the meeting. Gennaro returned from it with a face which told me that something dreadful had occurred. It was worse than we could have imagined possible. The funds of the society were raised by blackmailing rich Italians and threatening them with violence should they refuse the money. It seems that Castalotte, our dear friend and benefactor, had been approached. He had refused to yield to threats, and he had handed the notices to the police. It was resolved now that such an example should be made of them as would prevent any other victim from rebelling. At the meeting it was arranged that he and his house should be blown up with dynamite. There was a drawing of lots as to who should carry out the deed. Gennaro saw our enemy's cruel face smiling at him as he dipped his hand in the bag. No doubt it had been prearranged in some fashion, for it was the fatal disc with the Red Circle upon it, the mandate for murder, which lay upon his palm. He was to kill his best friend, or he was to expose himself and me to the vengeance of his comrades. It was part of their fiendish system to punish those whom they feared or hated by injuring not only their own persons but those whom they loved, and it was the knowledge of this which hung as a terror over my poor Gennaro's head and drove him nearly crazy with apprehension."

"All that night we sat together, our arms round each other, each strengthening each for the troubles that lay before us. The very next evening had been fixed for the attempt. By midday my husband and I were on our way to London, but not before he had given our benefactor full warning of this danger, and had also left such information for the police as would safeguard his life for the future."

"The rest, gentlemen, you know for yourselves. We were sure that our enemies would be behind us like our own shadows. Gorgiano had his private reasons for vengeance, but in any case we knew how ruthless, cunning, and untiring he could be. Both Italy and America are full of stories of his dreadful powers. If ever they were exerted it would be now. My darling made use of the few clear days which our start had given us in arranging for a refuge for me in such a fashion that no possible danger could reach me. For his own part, he wished to be free that he might communicate both with the American and with the Italian police. I do not myself know where he lived, or how. All that I learned was through the columns of a newspaper. But once as I looked through my window, I saw two Italians watching the house, and I understood that in some way Gorgiano had found our retreat. Finally Gennaro told me, through the paper, that he would signal to me from a certain window, but when the signals came they were nothing but warnings, which were suddenly interrupted. It is very clear to me now that he knew Gorgiano to be close upon him, and that, thank God! he was ready for him when he came. And now, gentleman, I would ask you whether we have anything to fear from the law, or whether any judge upon earth would condemn my Gennaro for what he has done?"

"Well, Mr Gregson," said the American, looking across at the official, "I don't know what your British point of view may be, but I guess that in New York this lady's husband will receive a pretty general vote of thanks."

"She will have to come with me and see the chief," Gregson answered. "If what she says is corroborated, I do not think she or her husband has much to fear. But what I can't make head or tail of, Mr Holmes, is how on earth YOU got yourself mixed up in the matter."

"Education, Gregson, education. Still seeking knowledge at the old university. Well, Watson, you have one more specimen of the tragic and grotesque to add to your collection. By the way, it is not eight o'clock, and a Wagner night at Covent Garden! If we hurry, we might be in time for the second act." All I could do was stare at him through wide eyes. My sister, the woman he claimed to have feelings for, was stood beside me in an obvious state of distress but he honestly didn't seem to care that much.

"Holmes! In case it has escaped your attention, my sister is trembling by my side. I am not about to leave her so you can go watch Wagner!" I hissed loudly, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. The tone of my voice seemed to wake him up to the situation she found herself in as he looked over to her. Like many times before, he quickly scanned her face then slipped off his thick outer coat, placing it carefully over her shoulders. Within a mere matter of moments, the shivers of shock were starved off.

"I apologise darling. I shouldn't have failed to spot your obvious discomfort." He told her, placing an arm around her shoulders then rubbing the top of her arm in order to warm her up a little bit but she shook her head, releasing a deep, shaky breath.

"No, it's fine. You should go see Wagner as I know that you enjoy his compositions. Meanwhile, I shall return home and have a nice hot cup of tea. British solution to everything." She claimed weakly, her tone of voice obviously fake which, with a shared glance between us, both of us knew instantly.

"No, we shall all go back to 221b."

"Sherlock, go to the theatre! I am fine!" she cried, turning quickly on her heel then walking away into the night. Worried for her safety, I set off to follow her but a hand on my shoulder restrained me from doing so.

"Watson, allow her to take her frustrations out on the pavement. In this state, I fear she might say something she doesn't mean to either one of us and she is also aware of the fact which is why she walked away."

"Holmes, she can't walk all the way to Baker Street alone! It's dangerous."

"No, she can't." he agreed, turning to the house where we had just come from. Stood in front of it was Gregson and with a beckoning nod, he scurried over to see what the consultant detective wanted from him.

"Gregson, I wish for you to follow our dear Luna back to 221b though please, don't try to hide as she might mistake you for a stalker and attack. Simply tell her that you saw her storm off and wished to escort her home." The police officer nodded, a grin spreading on his face, and then turned around to follow but before he could, Holmes grabbed hold of his arm in a tight grip which made the other man wince.

"If the thought of flattery should flutter into your little mind, kill the desire; If I hear you attempted any form of seduction towards her, I will not hesitate." Despite the fact that the furious fires in his eyes weren't directed towards me, I still felt small slithers of fear worm its way into my heart.

"Hesitate to do what, sir?"

"I shall leave that thought up to you Gregson."

"B-But, I t-thought she w-wasn't courting a-anyone."

"Well, that is where you are wrong. She belongs to me Gregson and I get very… possessive of what I have claimed. Now, pip pip. You have a lady to escort." He said, his voice suddenly turning from dark to cheerful. The officer nodded, dashing off into the distance until we couldn't see him through the thick darkness that enveloped the streets of London.

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	24. Night Terrors, Caring and Real Names

When we arrived back at 221b, both feeling a little more jolly than before because of the fine scotch we had ordered at the theatre, my little sister was curled up into a tight ball in front of the fire with one of Holmes' jackets wrapped around her and a pillow clutched to her chest. Anyone could see that her slumber was far from peaceful from the way her jaw was clenched and her eyes darted beneath her lids. Closing the distance between us both in quick strides, I bent down to wake her but my friend stopped me from doing such, a stony expression on his face.

"You call yourself a doctor Watson. Wake her too suddenly and she shall go into shock so unless you would like your little sister to die of a heart attack, approach the task with caution." He warned me, his eyes narrowed slightly. Rolling my eyes at him, I moved to shake her a little but before my hand was within inches of her arm, he had hold of my wrist. The grip he used wasn't tight enough to cause me any pain but enough to make it uncomfortable for me.

"Holmes, I wasn't going to harm her so there is no need to panic. I was simply going to shake her but in a very gentle way." I explained, slowly taking his hand from my wrist though it didn't stop him from throwing worried glances over to her. Moving cautiously, I placed a hand on her shoulder and began to move her. Admittedly, I was expecting her to snap her eyes open but she didn't. Instead, her trembling grew more in its intensity.

"John, what's wrong with her?" He murmured, shocking me slightly as he never called me by my first name unless it was in an extremely important situation. Quickly recovering, I removed my hands from her then cast a glance to my friend.

"We shall move her to her bed where she shall be comfortable. If you could open her bedroom door for me, I would be most grateful." I told him, about to scoop her into my arms but Sherlock stopped me once more, shaking his head.

"N-No. I shall carry her." A moment later, he had her safely in his arms, making sure to support her head by placing it carefully on his shoulder while he held her close to his body. Almost instantly, she seemed to relax, her face smoothing slightly though the occasional whimper did escape her lips as we moved, taking her to her bed.

Luna's room was probably what you would expect. It was furnished with the bare necessities like a bed, wardrobe and vanity table though they were made of a handsome wood. On one wall hung varies photographs of the pair of us and the detective, newspaper cuttings which spoke of a case we solved and a couple of letters that we exchanged while I was in the service. To most, it would seem to belong to a man, especially with the number of books which littered the floor and various surfaces but I couldn't imagine it any other way. It was completely her.

"Place her on the bed, making sure that her body is beneath the blankets." I instructed quietly, watching carefully as he did as I said. Once she was settled, he attempted to take a step back but she simply refused, grabbing hold of his jacket sleeve. With a quiet sigh, he stayed by her side, showing the same kind of loyalty that she showed him on a regular basis.

"Now what do we do John?" He murmured, stroking her cheek gently with the back of his fingers. The gesture calmed her expression considerably, causing all the lines forged of fright to become smooth once more.

"I'm afraid there is nothing we can do my friend. If the sight of that cadaver has scared so, she may be able to hide it during the day but her mind will not allow her to forget so easily. You know as well as I, the mind is a delicate thing that allows us no peace from our demons until they are suitably dealt with. All I can suggest is that we get her to talk about her night terrors in the morning. Until then, you will sleep and I will keep watch over her." I told him, not matter how much it pained me to say that we were practically useless until she woke. Moving from my place near the doorway, I strode towards the bed with purpose but was stopped by my friend's hand.

"You must rest my dear Watson. I shall keep an eye on our pet for the night... No, no attempts at changing my mind either. What I say is final now go along to your bed. There's a good fellow." Of course, I did as he had asked me, just like I had done plenty of times before. However, when I got to the door, I turned to glance back and the image put a smile on my face.

Sherlock had perched himself on the side of her bed, his sleeve still in her hand, though Luna had moved to curl into his side, her head resting gently against his thigh. With his free arm, he began to stroke her hair which seemed to comfort her even more. Her once restless tossing and turning of terror slowed to a more soothing rocking motion.

Just as I was about to walk out, I heard him murmur quietly to her.

"I'm sorry my love, I should have seen that you were uncomfortable around him and rest assured, I will make sure you are not plagued by these nightmares for long. You have my word."

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	25. The Three Garridebs Chapter One

_**I'm incredibly sorry for not updating soon but no need to worry. As of today, this whole story is finished to make up for it. 'The Adventure of the cardboard box' won't be done as I've found it difficult to integrate Luna into the story itself. **_

_**However, please don't be sad.**_

_**Of course, School is starting in 2 days but I will begin a sequel for this sometime in the future. **_

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_I would like to dedicate this chapter to: Alcene, Crazylily1007 , jessieanne412, Lulu-fifi, Mammps, MissGuardianAngel, romana45 and TheGoldenHairedMockingjay. A big thank you to you all adding this story onto your favourites list._

_I'd also like to dedicate it to : arabbitheartofgold, Crazylily1007, fifim007, Fukuko-chan, Hitsugaya Aiko, Lulu-fif, Mammps, Phantomhawk-writer, romana45, TheGoldenHairedMockingjay, TrashedAndScatteredSidwinder and White Alchemist Taya. Thank you all for following this story! I really appreciate it. _

_Last, but not least, Guest,McCoy'sGirl and HarryWho is my best word. Thank you all reviewing, as well as the others who took the time to review on the chapters. I love you all and I will see you again with the sequel! _

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It may have been a comedy, or it may have been a tragedy. It cost one man his reason, it cost me a blood-letting, it cost my sister the use of her left hand and it cost yet another man the penalties of the law. Yet there was certainly an element of comedy. Well, you shall judge for yourselves.

I remember the date very well, for it was in the same month that Holmes refused a knighthood for services which may perhaps someday be described. Of course, when that happened, Luna had yelled at him for a whole week, claiming him to be a stupid, idiotic, moronic ignoramus but he made matters worse by reminding her that she used different adjectives for stupid which resulted in silence for two days. I only refer to the matter in passing, for my position of partner and confidant; I am obliged to be particularly careful to avoid any indiscretion.

I repeat, however, that this enables me to fix the date, which was the latter end of June, 1902, shortly after the conclusion of the South African War. Holmes had taken my sister and spent several days in bed, as was his habit from time to time which he then enforced with Luna, but he emerged that morning with a long foolscap document in his hand and a twinkle of amusement in his austere grey eyes that matched that of my sister's.

"Ah, there seems to be a chance for you to make yourself some money, my dear Watson," he said. "Have you ever heard the name of Garrideb?"

I admitted that I had not.

"Well, if you can lay your hand upon a Garrideb, there's money in it."

"Why?"

"It's a long story John." Luna claimed with a small sigh.

"A rather whimsical one at that."

"I don't think that in all our explorations of the human complexities, we have ever some upon anything more singular."

"The fellow will be here presently for cross-examination, so I won't open the matter until he comes. But, meanwhile, that's the name we want."

All I could do was look at them in amusement, finding the way they spoke fluently from each other an amazing feat and a clear indication of how they felt about each other. Not even Mary and I could do such a thing and we had been together for a year, expecting to get married in a few months. To share such a connection was unheard of, yet it completely fit the pair as they weren't considered normal by others and if they were to fall in love, they would do it 'properly' or not at all.

The telephone directory lay on the table beside me, and I turned over the pages in a rather hopeless quest. But to my amazement there was this strange name in its due place. I gave a cry of triumph.

"Here you are, Holmes! Here it is!"

Holmes took the book from my hand.

" 'Garrideb, N.,' " he read, " '136 Little Ryder Street, W.' Sorry to disappoint you, my dear Watson, but this is the man himself. That is the address upon his letter. We want another to match him."

Mrs Hudson had come in with a card upon a tray. I took it up and glanced at it.

"Why, here it is!" I cried in amazement. "This is a different initial. John Garrideb, Counsellor at Law, Moorville, Kansas, U. S. A. "

Holmes smiled as he looked at the card. "I am afraid you must make yet another effort, Watson," said he. "This gentleman is also in the plot already, though I certainly did not expect to see him this morning. However, he is in a position to tell us a good deal which I want to know."

A moment later he was in the room. Mr John Garrideb, Counsellor at Law, was a short, powerful man with the round, fresh, clean-shaven face characteristic of so many American men of affairs. The general effect was chubby and rather childlike, so that one received the impression of quite a young man with a broad set smile upon his face. His eyes, however, were arresting. Seldom in any human head have I seen a pair which bespoke a more intense inward life, so bright were they, so alert, so responsive to every change of thought. His accent was American, but was not accompanied by any eccentricity of speech.

"Mr Holmes?" he asked, glancing from him to me. "ah, yes! Your pictures are not unlike you, sir, if I may so say. Oh, and who is this fine young lady?" Taking a step forward, he picked up my sister's hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

"This is my wife, the sister of my colleague here and also aids me in the solving of cases, Luna Holmes. Now, I have received a letter from your namesake, Mr Nathan Garrideb so please, sit down. I fancy that we shall have a great deal to discuss." He explained, taking up his sheets of foolscap.

Now, I can take a shot at what you're thinking but no, they're not engaged. Ever since the 'Red Circle' case, it had become part of their charade enforced by… him. By lying to everyone, no men attempted anything with my sister and no women tried anything with him.

"You are, of course, the Mr John Garrideb mentioned in this document. But surely, you have been in England some time?"

"Why do you say such a thing, Ms Watson?" I seemed to read a sudden suspicion in those expressive eyes of his.

"Well for the start, you have no American mannerisms in your speech patterns, though you do speak with the correct accent."

"And, your whole outfit is English." Sherlock finished, causing Mr Garrideb to force a laugh.

"I've read of your tricks, Mr Holmes, but I never thought I would be the subject of them. Where do you read that?"

"The shoulder cut of your coat," he began, allowing my sister to intercept seamlessly.

"The toes of your boots,"

"Could anyone doubt it?"

"Well, well, I had no idea I was so obvious a Britisher. But business brought me over here some time ago, and so, as you say, my outfit is nearly all London. However, I guess your time is of value, and we did not meet to talk about the cut of my socks. What about getting down to that paper you hold in your hand?"

Holmes and my sister had in some way ruffled our visitor, whose chubby face had assumed a far less amiable expression.

"Patience! Patience, Mr Garrideb!" said my friend in a soothing voice. "Dr Watson would tell you that these little digressions of mine sometimes prove in the end to have some bearing on the matter. But why did Mr Nathan Garrideb not come with you?"

"Why did he ever drag you into it at all?" asked our visitor with a sudden out flame of anger. "What in thunder had you to do with it? Here was a bit of professional business between two gentlemen, and one of them must need call in a detective! I saw him this morning, and he told me this fool-trick he had played me, and that's why I am here. But I feel bad about it, all the same."

"There was no reflection upon you, Mr Garrideb. It was simply zeal upon his part to gain your end - an end which is, I understand, equally vital for both of you. He knew that I had means of getting information, and, therefore, it was very natural that he should apply to me."

Our visitor's angry face gradually cleared.

"Well, that puts it different," said he. "When I went to see him this morning and he told me he had sent to a detective, I just asked for your address and came right away. I don't want police butting into a private matter. But if you are content just to help us find the man, there can be no harm in that."

"Well, that is just how it stands," said Holmes. "And now, sir, since you are here, we had best have a clear account from your own lips."

"Also, my brother has yet to hear the details."

Mr Garrideb surveyed me with not too friendly a gaze.

"Need he know?" he asked.

"We share everything with my colleague and future brother in law."

"Well, there's no reason it should be kept a secret. I'll give you the facts as short as I can make them. If you came from Kansas I would not need to explain to you who Alexander Hamilton Garrideb was. He made his money in real estate, and afterwards in the wheat pit at Chicago, but he spent it in buying up as much land as would make one of your counties, lying along the Arkansas River, west of Fort Dodge. It's grazing-land and lumber-land and arable-land and mineralized-land, and just every sort of land that brings dollars to the man that owns it."

"He had no kith nor kin - or, if he had, I never heard of it. But he took a kind of pride in the queerness of his name. That was what brought us together. I was in the law at Topeka, and one day I had a visit from the old man, and he was tickled to death to meet another man with his own name. It was his pet fad, and he was dead set to find out if there were any more Garridebs in the world. 'Find me another!' said he. I told him I was a busy man and could not spend my life hiking round the world in search of Garridebs. 'None the less,' said he, 'that is just what you will do if things pan out as I planned them.' I thought he was joking, but there was a powerful lot of meaning in the words, as I was soon to discover."

"For he died within a year of saying them, and he left a will behind him. It was the queerest will that has ever been filed in the State of Kansas. His property was divided into three parts and I was to have one on condition that I found two Garridebs who would share the remainder. It's five million dollars for each if it is a cent, but we can't lay a finger on it until we all three stand in a row."

"It was so big a chance that I just let my legal practice slide and I set forth looking for Garridebs. There is not one in the United States. I went through it, sir, with a fine-toothed comb and never a Garrideb could I catch. Then I tried the old country. Sure enough there was the name in the London telephone directory. I went after him two days ago and explained the whole matter to him. But he is a lone man, like myself, with some women relations, but no men. It says three adult men in the will. So you see we still have a vacancy and if you can help to fill it we will be very ready to pay your charges."

"Well, Watson," said Holmes with a smile, "l said it was rather whimsical, did I not? I should have thought, sir, that your obvious way was to advertise in the agony columns of the papers."

"I have done that, Mr Holmes. No replies."

"Dear me! Well, it is certainly a most curious little problem. I may take a glance at it in my leisure. By the way, it is curious that you should have come from Topeka. I used to have a correspondent - he is dead now - old Dr Lysander Starr, who was mayor in 1890."

"Good old Dr Starr!" said our visitor. "His name is still honoured. Well, Mr Holmes, I suppose all we can do is to report to you and let you know how we progress. I reckon you will hear within a day or two." With this assurance our American bowed and departed.

Holmes lit up his pipe, pulled my little sister into his lap then sat there for some time with a curious smile upon his face. Every few minutes he would offer it to her, despite what he had told me in a previous case, but she declined every time which made him chuckle quietly.

"Well?" I asked at last.

"I am wondering, Watson - just wondering!"

"At what?"

Holmes took his pipe from his lips.

"I was wondering, Watson, what on earth could be the object of this man in telling us such a rigmarole of lies. I nearly asked him so - for there are times when a brutal frontal attack is the best policy - but I judged it better to let him think he had fooled us. Here is a man with an English coat frayed at the elbow and trousers bagged at the knee with a year's wear, and yet by this document and by his own account he is a provincial American lately landed in London. There have been no advertisements in the agony columns. You know that I miss nothing there. They are my favourite covert for putting up a bird, and I would never have overlooked such a cock pheasant as that. I never knew a Dr Lysander Starr, of Topeka. Touch him where you would he was false. I think the fellow is really an American, but he has worn his accent smooth with years of London. What is his game, then, and what motive lies behind this preposterous search for Garridebs?"

"It's worth our attention, wouldn't you say Sherlock?" Luna asked, looking up at him. He gave a nod in reply.

"Yes. Granting that the man is a rascal, he is certainly a complex and ingenious one. We must now find out if our other correspondent is a fraud also. Just ring him up, Watson."

I did so, and heard a thin, quavering voice at the other end of the line.

"Yes, yes, I am Mr Nathan Garrideb. Is Mr Holmes there? I should very much like to have a word with Mr Holmes."

My friend took the instrument and I heard the usual syncopated dialogue.

"Yes, he has been here. I understand that you don't know him... How long? ... Only two days! ... Yes, yes, of course, it is a most captivating prospect. Will you be at home this evening? I suppose your namesake will not be there? . . . Very good, we will come then, for I would rather have a chat without him... Dr Watson and my wife will be accompanying me... I understand from your note that you do not go out often... Well, we shall be round about six. You need not mention it to the American lawyer... Very good. Good-bye!" The moment he placed the phone down, my sister began speaking.

"And why, if you don't mind me asking, am I still your wife? I thought that charade was to be dropped after our last case."

"Then you thought wrongly my darling. To the outside world, you're my wife for I find that women tend to respond better to a married couple than a mere courting pair. Now come on, we must get to Mr Garrideb's home but we have a few stops on the way." Rolling her eyes, she picked up her cane then walked over to the door, only to be stopped by her 'husband'.

"Yes, my love?"

"Take my coat. It… reinforces the illusion that we're married by… showing other men that you belong to me." He explained, draping the heavy black coat over her shoulders. Of course, as he was around a head taller than her, it covered most of her dress which was made from blue velvet, a gift from a case that involved a dressmaker's son. The fabric itself was rather expensive for her taste but she wore it with pride. If anything, the coat my friend had placed on her actually complimented it, matching the thick black lace which lined the hem.

"Thank you."


	26. The Three Garridebs Chapter Two

It was twilight of a lovely spring evening, and even Little Ryder Street, one of the smaller offshoots from the Edgware Road, within a stone-cast of old Tyburn Tree of evil memory, looked golden and wonderful in the slanting rays of the setting sun. The particular house to which we were directed was a large, old-fashioned, Early Georgian edifice, with a flat brick face broken only by two deep bay windows on the ground floor. It was on this ground floor that our client lived, and, indeed, the low windows proved to be the front of the huge room in which he spent his waking hours. Holmes pointed as we passed to the small brass plate which bore the curious name.

"Up some years, Watson," he remarked, indicating its discoloured surface. "It's his real name, anyhow, and that is something to note."

The house had a common stair, and there were a number of names painted in the hall, some indicating offices and some private chambers. It was not a collection of residential flats, but rather the abode of Bohemian bachelors. Our client opened the door for us himself and apologized by saying that the woman in charge left at four o'clock. Mr Nathan Garrideb proved to be a very tall, loose jointed, round-backed person, gaunt and bald, some sixty-odd years of age. He had a cadaverous face, with the dull dead skin of a man to whom exercise was unknown. Large round spectacles and a small projecting goat's beard combined with his stooping attitude to give him an expression of peering curiosity. The general effect, however, was amiable, though eccentric.

The room was as curious as its occupant. It looked like a small museum. It was both broad and deep, with cupboards and cabinets all round, crowded with specimens, geological and anatomical. Cases of butterflies and moths flanked each side of the entrance. A large table in the centre was littered with all sorts of debris, while the tall brass tube of a powerful microscope bristled up among them. As I glanced round I was surprised at the universality of the man's interests. Here was a case of ancient coins. There was a cabinet of flint instruments. Behind his central table was a large cupboard of fossil bones. Above was a line of plaster skulls with such names as "Neanderthal," "Heidelberg," "Cro-Magnon" printed beneath them. It was clear that he was a student of many subjects.

My sister seemed completely captivated by everything in the room, her eyes taking in everything about the skulls and flint weapons with interest. Sherlock simply stood by her side, his arm around her waist. As the elderly man stood in front of us, he held a piece of chamois leather in his right hand with which he was polishing a coin.

"Syracusan - of the best period," he explained, holding it up. "They degenerated greatly towards the end. At their best I hold them supreme, though some prefer the Alexandrian school. You will find a chair here for your lady, Mr Holmes. Pray allow me to clear these bones. And you, sir - ah, yes, Dr Watson - if you would have the goodness to put the Japanese vase to one side. You see round me my little interests in life. My doctor lectures me about never going out, but why should I go out when I have so much to hold me here? I can assure you that the adequate cataloguing of one of those cabinets would take me three good months."

Holmes looked round him with curiosity.

"But do you tell me that you never go out?" he said.

"Now and again I drive down to Sotheby's or Christie's. Otherwise I very seldom leave my room. I am not too strong, and my researches are very absorbing. But you can imagine, Mr Holmes, what a terrific shock - pleasant but terrific - it was for me when I heard of this unparalleled good fortune. It only needs one more Garrideb to complete the matter, and surely we can find one. I had a brother, but he is dead, and female relatives are disqualified. But there must surely be others in the world. I had heard that you handled strange cases, and that was why I sent to you. Of course, this American gentleman is quite right, and I should have taken his advice first, but I acted for the best."

"I think you acted very wisely indeed sir." My sister told him.

"But are you really anxious to acquire an estate in America?" said Holmes.

"Certainly not, sir. Nothing would induce me to leave my collection. But this gentleman has assured me that he will buy me out as soon as we have established our claim. Five million dollars was the sum named. There are a dozen specimens in the market at the present moment which fill gaps in my collection, and which I am unable to purchase for want of a few hundred pounds. Just think what I could do with five million dollars. Why, I have the nucleus of a national collection. I shall be the Hans Sloane of my age."

His eyes gleamed behind his great spectacles. It was very clear that no pains would be spared by Mr Nathan Garrideb in finding a namesake.

"We merely called to make your acquaintance, and there is no reason why we should interrupt your studies," Sherlock carried on, helping Luna up by her hand in order to take her seat then pulling her back onto his lap where she rest comfortably. Sometimes, I wished he wouldn't so such a thing in public.

"However, my husband prefers to establish person in touch with those whom we do business with." She explained, playing with the lapel of his jacket briefly.

"There are few questions I need ask, for I have your very clear narrative in my pocket, and I filled up the blanks when this American gentleman called. I understand that up to this week you were unaware of his existence."

"That is so. He called last Tuesday."

"Did he tell you of our interview to-day?" Luna continued, observing him carefully.

"Yes, he came straight back to me. He had been very angry."

"Why should he be angry?"

"He seemed to think it was some reflection on his honour. But he was quite cheerful again when he returned."

"Did he suggest any course of action?"

"No, sir, he did not."

"Has he had, or asked for, any money from you?"

"No, sir, never!"

"You see no possible object he has in view?"

"None, except what he states."

"Did you tell him of our telephone appointment?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

Holmes was lost in thought. I could see that he was puzzled.

"Have you any articles of great value in your collection?" my sister asked once more, obviously seeing her ' husband' was a little stuck. I couldn't help but smile a little at that.

"No, ma'am . I am not a rich man. It is a good collection, but not a very valuable one."

"You have no fear of burglars?"

"Not the least."

"How long have you been in these rooms?"

"Nearly five years."

Holmes' and Luna's cross-examination was interrupted by an imperative knocking at the door. No sooner had our client unlatched it than the American lawyer burst excitedly into the room.

"Here you are!" he cried, waving a paper over his head. "I thought I should be in time to get you. Mr Nathan Garrideb, my congratulations! You are a rich man, sir. Our business is happily finished and all is well. As to you and you're companions, Mr Holmes, we can only say we are sorry if we have given you any useless trouble."

He handed over the paper to our client, who stood staring at a marked advertisement. Me, my sister and Holmes moved over to lean forward so we could read it over his shoulder. This is how it ran:

HOWARD GARRIDEB  
CONSTRUCTOR OF ACRICULTURAL MACHINERY  
Binders, reapers, steam and hand plows, drills, harTows,  
farmer's carts, buckboards, and all other appliances.  
Estimates for Artesian Wells  
Apply Grosvenor Buildings, Aston

"Glorious!" gasped our host. "That makes our third man."

"I had opened up inquiries in Birmingham," said the American, "and my agent there has sent me this advertisement from a local paper. We must hustle and put the thing through. I have written to this man and told him that you will see him in his office to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock."

"You want me to see him?"

"What do you say, Mr Holmes? Don't you think it would be wiser? Here am I, a wandering American with a wonderful tale. Why should he believe what I tell him? But you are a Britisher with solid references, and he is bound to take notice of what you say. I would go with you if you wished, but I have a very busy day to-morrow, and I could always follow you if you are in any trouble."

"Well, I have not made such a journey for years."

"It is nothing, Mr Garrideb. I have figured out our connections. You leave at twelve and should be there soon after two. Then you can be back the same night. All you have to do is to see this man, explain the matter, and get an affidavit of his existence. By the Lord!" he added hotly, "considering I've come all the way from the centre of America, it is surely little enough if you go a hundred miles in order to put this matter through."

"Quite so," said Holmes. "I think what this gentleman says is very true."

Mr Nathan Garrideb shrugged his shoulders with a disconsolate air. "Well, if you insist I shall go," said he. "It is certainly hard for me to refuse you anything, considering the glory of hope that you have brought into my life."

"Then that is agreed," said Holmes, "and no doubt you will let me have a report as soon as you can."

"I'll see to that," said the American. "Well," he added looking at his watch, "I'll have to get on. I'll call to-morrow, Mr Nathan, and see you off to Birmingham. Coming my way, Mr Holmes? Well, then, good-bye, and we may have good news for you to-morrow night."

I noticed that my friend's face cleared when the American left the room, and the look of thoughtful perplexity had vanished.

"I wish I could look over your collection, Mr Garrideb," Luna confessed, stroking one of the display cases with her fingertips which made me smile. She always was attracted to colourful or strange things which was acceptable when it came to butterflies but not when it comes to the dangerous substances, each available in a variety of different colours, that Sherlock enjoys to bring home for his experiments.

"I would also darling. In my profession all sorts of odd knowledge comes useful, and this room of yours is a storehouse of it."

Our client shone with pleasure and his eyes gleamed from behind his big glasses.

"I had always heard, sir, that you were a very intelligent man," said he. "I could take you round now if you have the time." Luna stepped forward, nodding at a rate which would surely cause her neck to ache later, with a smile that almost split her face but it wasn't to be. Her 'husband'placed an arm around her, pulling her backwards.

"Unfortunately, we have none. But these specimens are so well labelled and classified that they hardly need your personal explanation. If I were to bring my lady tomorrow so we could peruse them, I presume that there would be no objection to us glancing over them all?"

"None at all. You are both most welcome. The place will, of course, be shut up, but Mrs Saunders is in the basement up to four o'clock and would let you in with her key."

"Well, we happen to be clear to-morrow afternoon. If you would say a word to Mrs Saunders it would be quite in order. By the way, who is your house-agent?"

Our client was amazed at the sudden question.

"Holloway and Steele, in the Edgware Road. But why?"

"I am a bit of an archaeologist myself when it comes to houses," said Holmes, laughing. "I was wondering if this was Queen Anne or Georgian."

"Georgian, beyond doubt."

"Really? I thought it was little earlier than that." Luna mused quietly, Holmes' humming in agreement.

"However, it is easily ascertained. Well, good-bye, Mr Garrideb, and may you have every success in your Birmingham journey."


	27. The Three Garridebs Chapter Three

The house-agent's was close by, but we found that it was closed for the day, so we made our way back to Baker Street. It was not till after dinner that Holmes reverted to the subject.

"Our little problem draws to a close," said he. "No doubt you have outlined the solution in your own mind."

"I can make neither head nor tail of it."

"The head is surely clear enough and the tail we should see to-morrow. Did you notice nothing curious about that advertisement?"

"I saw that the word 'plough' was misspelt."

"Good one brother. Sherlock, hand it over." Luna said, holding her out in front of her partner. With a small sigh, he dropped 10 shillings into her hand though she gave him 5 back with the addition of a kiss to his cheek.

"Why haven't you accepted it?"

"Because Sherlock, I don't wish to… cheapen such an extraordinary feat."

"You didn't have 10 shillings to start with, did you?" he inquired, pulling her closer to him but she simply smiled though it told me everything. No. She didn't have it.

" Come, Watson, you improve all the time. Yes, it was bad English but good American. The printer had set it up as received. Then the buckboards. That is American also. And artesian wells are commoner with them than with us. It was a typical American advertisement, but purporting to be from an English firm. What do you make of that?"

"I can only suppose that this American lawyer put it in himself. What his object was I fail to understand."

"Well, there are alternative explanations. Anyhow, he wanted to get this good old fossil up to Birmingham. That is very clear. I might have told him that he was clearly going on a wild-goose chase, but, on second thoughts, it seemed better to clear the stage by letting him go. To-morrow, Watson - well, to-morrow will speak for itself."

Holmes was up and out early, leaving a sleeping Luna behind who proceeded to curse the day he was born and pace the length of the room until he returned around lunchtime, his face grave.

"Where were you!? You can't just leave me while you go gallivanting around the place! What if you were in danger?" she cried, pounding his chest with her fists though he simply held her, allowing her to get all of her frustrations out while he spoke over the top of her head, his chin resting on her curls.

"This is a more serious matter than I had expected, Watson," said he. "It is fair to tell you so, though I know it will only be an additional reason to you for running your head into danger. I should know my Watson and his darling sister by now. But there is danger, and you should both know it."

"Well, it is not the first we have shared, Holmes. I hope it may not be the last. What is the particular danger this time?"

"We are up against a very hard case. I have identified Mr John Garrideb, Counsellor at Law. He is none other than 'Killer' Evans, of sinister and murderous reputation."

"I fear I am none the wiser."

"Ah, it is not part of your profession to carry about a portable Newgate Calendar in your memory. I have been down to see friend Lestrade at the Yard. There may be an occasional want of imaginative intuition down there, but they lead the world for thoroughness and method. I had an idea that we might get on the track of our American friend in their records. Sure enough, I found his chubby face smiling up at me from the rogues' portrait gallery. 'James Winter, alias Morecroft, alias Killer Evans,' was the inscription below." Holmes drew an envelope from his pocket. "I scribbled down a few points from his dossier: Aged forty-four. Native of Chicago. Known to have shot three men in the States. Escaped from penitentiary through political influence. Came to London in 1893. Shot a man over cards in a night-club in the Waterloo Road in January, 1895. Man died, but he was shown to have been the aggressor in the row. Dead man was identified as Rodger Prescott, famous as forger and coiner in Chicago. Killer Evans released in 1901. Has been under police supervision since, but so far as known has led an honest life. Very dangerous man, usually carries arms and is prepared to use them. That is our bird, Watson - a sporting bird, as you must admit."

"But what is his game?" Lu asked, looking up. She had finished her ruthless beating of his chest, settling to just listening to what he had to say. With a small smile, he tucked a loose curl behind her ear, trailing his hand down to caress her cheek lightly with the back of his hand.

"Well my dear, it begins to define itself. I have been to the house agent's. Our client, as he told us, has been there five years. It was un-let for a year before then. The previous tenant was a gentleman at large named Waldron. Waldron's appearance was well remembered at the office. He had suddenly vanished and nothing more been heard of him. He was a tall, bearded man with very dark features. Now, Prescott, the man whom Killer Evans had shot, was, according to Scotland Yard, a tall, dark man with a beard. As a working hypothesis, I think we may take it that Prescott, the American criminal, used to live in the very room which our innocent friend now devotes to his museum. So at last we get a link, you see."

"And the next link?"

"Well, we must go now and look for that."

He took a revolver from the drawer and handed it to me then passed my sister's cane over to her.

"I have my old favourite with me. If our Wild West friend tries to live up to his nickname, we must be ready for him. I'll give you an hour for a siesta, Watson, and then I think it will be time for our Ryder Street adventure."

It was just four o'clock when we reached the curious apartment of Nathan Garrideb. Mrs Saunders, the caretaker, was about to leave, but she had no hesitation in admitting us, for the door shut with a spring lock, and Holmes promised to see that all was safe before we left. Shortly afterwards the outer door closed, her bonnet passed the bow window, and we knew that we were alone in the lower floor of the house. Holmes made a rapid examination of the premises with Luna. There was one cupboard in a dark corner which stood out a little from the wall. It was behind this that we eventually crouched while Holmes in a whisper outlined his intentions.

"He wanted to get our amiable friend out of his room - that is very clear, and, as the collector never went out, it took some planning to do it. The whole of this Garrideb invention was apparently for no other end. I must say, Watson, that there is a certain devilish ingenuity about it, even if the queer name of the tenant did give him an opening which he could hardly have expected. He wove his plot with remarkable cunning.''

"But what did he want?"

"Well, that is what we are here to find out. It has nothing whatever to do with our client, so far as I can read the situation. It is something connected with the man he murdered - the man who may have been his confederate in crime. There is some guilty secret in the room. That is how I read it. At first I thought our friend might have something in his collection more valuable than he knew - something worth the attention of a big criminal. But the fact that Rodger Prescott of evil memory inhabited these rooms points to some deeper reason. Well, Watson, pet, we can but possess our souls in patience and see what the hour may bring."

* * *

That hour was not long in striking. We crouched closer in the shadow as we heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp, metallic snap of a key, and the American was in the room. He closed the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see that all was safe, threw off his overcoat, and walked up to the central table with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushed the table to one side, tore up the square of carpet on which it rested, rolled it completely back, and then, drawing a jemmy from his inside pocket, he knelt down and worked vigorously upon the floor. Presently we heard the sound of sliding boards, and an instant later a square had opened in the planks. Killer Evans struck a match, lit a stump of candle, and vanished from our view.

Clearly our moment had come. Holmes touched my wrist and my sisters shoulder as a signal, and together we all stole across to the open trap-door. Gently as we moved, however, the old floor must have creaked under our feet, for the head of our American, peering anxiously round, emerged suddenly from the open space. His face turned upon us with a glare of baffled rage, which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as he realized that two pistols and a long, sharp, silver blade were pointed at his head.

"Well, well!" said he coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and -"

In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. From the corner of my eye, I could see my sister clutching her left hand tightly with the right one, blood dripping onto the floor. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. I had a vision of him sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face while Holmes rummaged him for weapons. Then my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair while my sister followed, tears running down her face.

"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"

"A-Are you hurt J-John? 'Cause I w-will kill him now, w-while he lays there."

It was worth a wound - it was worth many wounds - to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask of my friend. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation.

"It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch."

He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.

"You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is quite superficial." His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner, who was sitting up with a dazed face. "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive. Though, admittedly, I'm finding it hard not to allow his sister on you for harming him before I take her own blade to you for shooting her. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?" he growled, his eyes narrowing while my sister cut off two pieces of fabric from her skirt. One was wrapped tightly around her hand, stemming the bleeding while the other went just as tightly around my wound.

The prisoner had nothing to say for himself. He only sat and scowled. With the help of a wincing sister, I leaned on Holmes's arm, and together we looked down into the small cellar which had been disclosed by the secret flap while she rested against the wall, her hand up to her chest. It was still illuminated by the candle which Evans had taken down with him. Our eyes fell upon a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls of paper, a litter of bottles, and, neatly arranged upon a small table, a number of neat little bundles.

"A printing press - a counterfeiter's outfit," said Holmes.

"Yes, sir," said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet and then sinking into the chair. The moment he had shown any thoughts of movement, Luna's blade was aimed at her throat. He must've miscalculated as she handled the blade with her right hand, meaning he shot the wrong one though I couldn't tell if it was on purpose. All I could tell was her obvious pain from her clenched teeth, tense jaw and set expression. "The greatest counterfeiter London ever saw. That's Prescott's machine, and those bundles on the table are two thousand of Prescott's notes worth a hundred each and fit to pass anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal and let me beat it."

Holmes laughed.

"We don't do things like that, Mr Evans. There is no bolt hole for you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?"

"Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled on me. Five years - when I should have had a medal the size of a soup plate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England, and if I hadn't put him out he would have flooded London with them. I was the only one in the world who knew where he made them. Can you wonder that I wanted to get to the place? And can you wonder that when I found this crazy boob of a bug-hunter with the queer name squatting right on the top of it, and never quitting his room, I had to do the best I could to shift him? Maybe I would have been wiser if I had put him away. It would have been easy enough, but I'm a soft-hearted guy that can't begin shooting unless the other man has a gun also. But say, Mr Holmes, what have I done wrong, anyhow? I've not used this plant. I've not hurt this old stiff. Where do you get me?"

"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see though my pet had no gun drawn towards you," said Holmes, his eyes closing slightly in anger before he composed himself. "But that's not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted at present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call Watson. It won't be entirely unexpected."

So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkable invention of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poor old friend never got over the shock of his dissipated dreams. When his castle in the air fell down, it buried him beneath the ruins. He was last heard of at a nursing-home in Brixton. It was a glad day at the Yard when the Prescott outfit was discovered, for, though they knew that it existed, they had never been able, after the death of the man, to find out where it was. Evans had indeed done great service and caused several worthy C. I. D. men to sleep the sounder, for the counterfeiter stands in a class by himself as a public danger. They would willingly have subscribed to that soup-plate medal of which the criminal had spoken, but an unappreciative bench took a less favourable view, and the Killer returned to those shades from which he had just emerged.

As for my sister, the hospital had managed to get the bullet which was embedded in her palm out and prevent further infection though sadly, it damaged her guiders which meant that she had limited movement of her fingers on the left hand. Of course, she was incredibly upset at first but after a few weeks of Sherlock making her move them on a regular basis, the movements increased and her doctor has given an assurance that it is fully possible to recovery full use of it which made her smile.


	28. Author's notice

Hello!

I'm officially back to the land of fanfiction because all my exams are over with for a couple of months.

Now, I have a treat...

This story officially has a sequel!

The Casebook Of Sherlock Holmes and Luna Watson is now up and running, ready to be read by all you who like Sherlock.

If you like this story, please give it a read.

Thank you!

Love you all !


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